


friends & family discount

by etben



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Kid Fic, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, blended families are good actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 96,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: “Are you...Patrick?”  It doesn’t make sense, but then again, nothing about Ray’s businesses makes much sense.To be honest, there’s not a lot about David’s life that makes sense these days.The kid giggles suddenly, like David has said something funny instead of being quite possibly the only rational human in the entire building.  “I’mJamie,” they say.  “Patrick’s mydad.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd/Rachel
Comments: 575
Kudos: 1095





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete! I'll be posting chapters as I finish final edits, hopefully every 3-4 days.
> 
> MANY MANY THANKS:  
> • to [shoemaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoemaster) for being the first person to read this (back in MAY 2019) and for then reading over the whole thing despite still not being caught up on canon;  
> • to [whetherwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman) for invaluable assistance in adding narrative tension, particularly in chapter 7, and for shrieking appreciatively in the right places;  
> • to [giddygeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddygeek) for an absolute GEM of a beta read that made this story so much better than it would have been otherwise, and for attempting to curb my addiction to em-dashes and semicolons;  
> • to [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus), for alpha-reading this monstrosity and never once doubting that I could do it;  
> • to [J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaywright), for only laughing a little as my word count climbed higher and higher, and for being the best Science Side of the Couch I could ask for;  
> • and to everbody who read a snippet of this and expressed interest in seeing more. You have only yourselves to blame.

Three years ago, this would have been easy. David would have texted his assistant, or at the absolute most left her a voicemail, and then he _never would have thought about it again_.

David looks back again at Ray Butani’s grinning disembodied face on the sign. With a sigh, he turns the doorknob. Times have fucking changed, that’s for sure.

Inside, the house is a Frankenstein’s monster of interior design. A set of dingy corporate chairs and a cluttered wood-veneer desk seem to be colonizing the space from the left, while the right is taken up with the world’s awkwardest photoshoot. All of it clashes nightmarishly with the pink carpet, the textured wallpaper.

“We had an appointment this morning?”

David looks around again, and everywhere he turns, there’s another atrocity. He spots a travel poster that looks like it was made for a middle school Spanish class; a cheap enameled globe with Australia mis-labeled; a display of _Photo’s by Ray_ that makes David cringe with every fiber of his being. 

“Remind me,” Ray says, turning around, “are you here for a photo series? Or travel planning? Or for our newest service—” Ray leans in, his voice conspiratorial, “closet reorganization?” 

David’s never actually felt his blood run cold before. It’s an interesting sensation.

“I’m here to file my incorporation papers for my business?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Ray says. “You’ll need to speak with Patrick. Patrick?” There’s a noise from the next room—the living room, ostensibly—and Ray nods. “He’ll be right here. In the meantime,” Ray reaches out and grabs a pull ticket from an actual red ticket dispenser on the wall, “please take a number!”

With that, Ray turns back to his camera and what David gathers is a newly engaged couple. They look terrified; David doesn’t blame them.

Ticket in hand, he steps around the corner and peeks into the living room. It’s blissfully quiet, empty except for several overstuffed leather couches.

One of which, on a second glance, turns out to contain a kid.

It can’t be Ray’s kid; four minutes of David’s five-minute phone call to set up this appointment involved Ray bemoaning his chronic singleness. Beyond that, though, it’s hard to say. The kid’s small and pale, with tousled ginger hair and a utilitarian gray t-shirt and basketball shorts. The clothes say ‘boy’, but the shoulder-length hair says maybe ‘tomboy’?

“Hello, small...person,” David says. Best to play it safe.

The kid looks up at him, making a confused and vaguely judgemental face that reminds David intensely of Alexis circa 1998.

“I’m in the 95% height percentile for my age,” they say, sounding out the word carefully. “That means that if you took a hundred kids my age, only five of them would be taller than me.” They tuck their hair behind their ear. “So I’m not _small_.” 

“Okay,” David says. “Are you...Patrick?” It doesn’t make sense, but then again, nothing about Ray’s businesses makes much sense. 

To be honest, there’s not a lot about David’s life that makes sense these days.

The kid giggles suddenly, like David has said something funny instead of being quite possibly the only rational human in the entire building. “I’m _Jamie_ ,” they say. “Patrick’s my _dad._ ” 

“That’s my cue,” says a voice from behind the couch. “Patrick Brewer. Sorry for the wait.”

David looks up. Patrick Brewer is definitely Jamie’s dad, that’s for sure. They have the same brown eyes, the same pointy chin. He’s not huge, but he’s solid, and the utterly unexceptional blue button-down he’s wearing is doing some very nice things for his forearms where he’s rolled the sleeves up.

Not that that’s relevant.

“It’s no problem,” David says graciously. “I was just chatting with your—with your associate, here,” he says, nodding to the androgynously-named Jamie, who fortunately giggles. Patrick steps around the couch and reaches out a hand for David to shake. The handshake is firm without crossing the line into masculine posturing, which is nice. “I’m David.”

“David Rose,” Patrick says, pointing at him. “You bought the general store.”

“Leased the general store, yeah.” 

He means it as a correction, but it comes out low and warm, almost flirtatious. David bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus. This isn’t some random in a gallery, someone David can charm and fuck and discard at will. This is an adult, a _parent_ , someone who wears chinos unironically and on purpose. This man is going to help David get his business license for his first real independent venture. David is going to be professional, old habits be damned.

It’s a shame, though, really, because Patrick Brewer is—David shakes himself. _Professional._

Fortunately, Patrick doesn’t seem to notice David’s inadvertent detour into Seduction Mode. He smiles and nods, then glances over to Jamie. “Okay, bug, I have to help David with his incorporation paperwork. You all set?” Jamie looks up from their book just long enough for a distracted nod. Patrick ruffles their hair, then turns back to David. “You want to have a seat?”

“Sure,” David says, and lets Patrick gesture him into a deeply unfortunate chair.

“Sorry about that,” Patrick says quietly. He tilts his head over to Jamie. “Her mom has a conference this weekend, and the sitter dropped out last minute.”

“It’s fine,” David says. “She was a consummate professional.” 

“ _Was_ she, now.” Patrick’s voice is dry as dust, pitched to carry, but Jamie makes a good show of being completely engaged in her book, chewing on a thumbnail as she reads. She’ll fuck up her nail beds if she does that, but it’s really not David’s place to say anything.

“Well, thanks for waiting, anyways.” Patrick picks up a pen, tapping it gently against his lower lip. David folds his hands in his lap and definitely doesn’t notice anything at all about the fullness of said lip. He’s being professional. “We start with the name of the business.”

The conversation is a complete shitshow. Everything that seemed simple and obvious when David was outlining it to Stevie over a beer somehow comes out jumbled and half-assed when David tries to explain it to Patrick Brewer. He’s laughing at David, all sly and quiet with his rolled-up sleeves and his shy smile. It’s _infuriating_. 

David leaves with blank incorporation papers, a card _(Patrick Brewer, business consulting, 705-449-8203)_ , and a desperate need for escape.

Back at the motel, Stevie is completely unsympathetic and utterly unhelpful, but she does give David a joint. Which on the one hand is wonderful, because, fuck, this fucking week. A joint sounds like exactly the right thing, even a disgusting secondhand joint from room 2.

On the other hand, it’s terrible, because David wakes up with 13 outgoing calls in his phone and a vague memory of telling Patrick to pay more attention to his daughter’s cuticles. 

Except it turns out that maybe it was wonderful after all, because when David takes his crumpled, much-amended paperwork back to Ray’s, Patrick hands him a clean copy, all filled in. He’s still laughing at David, but he says he thinks the business is a good idea, and somehow, David kind of believes him.

It’s dumb, because probably David will never see this guy again—he’s certainly going to do everything he can to avoid Ray’s house, _ugh_ —but still. Score one for professionalism, even if it does mean that David won’t get to hook up with the cute business major.

There’s nothing wrong with _thinking_ , after all.

***

A week and a half later, David is at the store, trying to keep Alexis from sampling him out of business before he even opens. He’s in the back room, trying to figure out where the jars of lemon curd ended up, when he hears the front door open and close, followed by the sound of voices: Alexis and somebody else. David considers leaving her to it—it’s not like she’s going to be any help with the boxes, so she may as well talk. Then David thinks for ten seconds about Alexis as the face of Rose Apothecary and puts down the box of reclaimed wood coasters he’s holding.

Inventory can wait. Image is forever.

“Oh,” he hears Alexis say, “isn’t that just the cutest thing? David’s in the back.” She makes absolutely no attempt to get David’s attention, naturally; God, she’s the _worst_. “But I am Alexis, David’s sister and life coach.” She’s pointing to the necklace like she always does, David just knows it. _Ugh_.

“What’s a life coach?” David comes through the curtain just in time to duck back into the stockroom before Alexis notices him. “Is it like a baseball coach?” David leans forward just enough to see Jamie, the kid from Ray’s office. She’s in a red t-shirt today, her hair back in a no-nonsense ponytail; next to her, her father is wearing another blue button-down. He catches David’s eye and tips his head backward in the barest hint of a nod, smirking.

“Oh my god, you are just too cute,” Alexis says. “Um, it’s kind of like that?” She twirls her hair around her finger. “Like, David is my brother, and he’s kind of a mess, so I tell him what he’s doing wrong and how he can be better, and, like, what he should wear and stuff.”

“Oh.” Jamie looks nonplussed. Next to her, Patrick looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Mr. Harper tells us to wear our uniforms, but only when we have a game.”

“Mr. Harper?”

“He’s my baseball coach,” Jamie says. “He says I have good hand-eye coordination.” She peers up at Alexis doubtfully. “Do you know him?”

Never let it be said that David Rose can’t recognize an opening when he hears one.

“Alexis, weren’t you saying something about a Mr. Harper at school?” He steps into the shop, smiles broadly. “Hi, sorry, I was doing some inventory.”

“David!” Alexis’ smile is poisonous. “I was just talking with Patrick and—” she turns, hesitating. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I didn’t get your name.”

“Oh, I’ve met Jamie,” David says, leaning against the counter. “She’s in the ninety-fifth percentile for height.”

“You know Mr. Harper? Do you work at the high school, too?” Jamie stares at Alexis with wide, impressed eyes.

“...yes,” Alexis says, after a moment. “Yes, I’m—I’m at the high school.” It’s probably a good thing that David is basically immune to Alexis’ glares at this point.

“Anyway,” David says, after a moment. “Patrick, good to see you.”

“Just dropping off your business license,” Patrick says. He rests his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, nudging her. “Weren’t we, bug?”

“We got a frame for it, too,” Jamie says. “Do you like it?” 

“Thank you,” David says, smiling. It’s an incredibly boring frame, all corporate chrome. It’s not going to match _anything_. “It’s wonderful; I love it.” 

Alexis makes a face, but David honestly means it. It’s incredibly off-brand, visually, but it’s...sweet, somehow. It’s personal and sincere in a way that David’s still not used to, even after an uncomfortable amount of time in Schitt’s Creek. Patrick was thinking about him, so he went out and spent—David flips the frame over to check—$6.99 on a tacky faux-chrome frame so that David’s business license would look nice. The quality of the frame feels less important next to that simple, genuine gesture, even if it _is_ ugly as fuck.

“There’s a lot of stuff in here.” Jamie looks around the store, wide-eyed. “Like, a _lot_ of stuff.”

“Thank you,” David says. 

“You don’t want to spend too much money upfront, though.” Patrick looks less impressed, scanning the store with a narrow, calculating stare.

“Yeah, that is _not_ good, David.” Alexis moves behind Jamie to stand next to Patrick, as if she knows what the fuck she’s talking about.

“You have to be prepared to survive a full year without making any profit,” Patrick continues.

Alexis shakes her head. “Actually, the textbooks now say eighteen months.”

“Well, what are the textbooks saying about curating a selection of products from local vendors and selling them on consignment in a one-stop-shop retail environment that benefits both the vendor and the customer?” So maybe David’s been working on his elevator pitch a little. That first conversation with Patrick was _excruciating_.

“I stand corrected,” Patrick says, grinning, while Alexis mutters something about not having her textbooks with her. “Listen, if you need help, let me know, but right now—” he glances down at Jamie, “we need to go meet Mom for dinner.” He nods to Alexis. “Nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you,” Jamie echoes, and then follows her dad out of the store. As the door swings shut, David can hear her ask, “Dad, what’s consignment?”

“Ugh, David,” Alexis says, stamping her foot. “He _totally_ would have helped you move all of those boxes!”

“Oh no.” David rolls his eyes. “I guess I’ll have to do that all by myself, without any help from anybody.” He turns back to the storage room.

“David!”

***

Alexis does help some, and by the end of the day they have most of the boxes more or less where David wants them, which is nice. Naturally, she acts like doing this very basic task should earn her some sort of a medal—or, more likely, a discount on the lip balm she “sampled” all afternoon.

“Whatever,” she says, when David tries to call her on her light-fingered habits. “Who’s Patrick? What’s his deal?”

“He works with Ray,” David says, pulling his shoes on. “He helped me file my incorporation paperwork.”

“Yeah, and bought you a _frame_ for your _business license_.” Alexis curls her hands in punctuation, bopping them up and down like she’s playing an imaginary piano. “I mean, it’s super fugly—”

“It really is,” David agrees.

“Ugh, _David_!” Alexis tosses her hair. “Not the _point_!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was there a point?”

Alexis sighs extravagantly. “The _point_ is, that’s a lot of effort to make for your sad little store.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Like, a _lot_ of effort.” The eyebrows intensify, suggesting things that are just—just, no. David’s being professional.

“Alexis, he’s _married_.” David throws up his hands. “Married with a _kid_ , remember?”

“Oh, right,” Alexis scoffs. “Because that’s stopped you before.” Which is just...okay, it’s true, technically, but it’s not like David is _proud_ of it.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I want.” David rolls his eyes. “He’s a business major who wears straight-leg mid-range denim; I guarantee that he’s not interested in me.”

“Whatever, David, I don’t know.” Alexis turns back around. “Maybe he’s just really into your store.” She shrugs. “ _Somebody_ has to be, I guess.”

But the next day, Patrick stops by the store again, this time without Jamie. Not to flirt with Alexis, but to offer to help David write grants so that he can get more money.

“And if I got the grants, you’d have the money to pay me.”

David hesitates, chewing on his lip. It’s stupid, it’s _so_ stupid. This store is his baby, his new beginning, the first thing he’s ever really done on his own. How can he possibly let a stranger in? David watches Patrick look around the space, at the piles of half-packed boxes and unlabelled jars, the shelving unit that he keeps shifting from one wall to another. It’s a mess now, but someday, maybe—

“David?” Patrick raises his eyebrows. Maybe, David thinks, just maybe, Patrick is seeing what he sees. 

“Yes,” he says. “I am...open to entertaining your investment offer.”

“Great.” Patrick’s smile is all in the corners of his eyes and the tilt of his mouth; David smiles back, helpless. “And, ah,” Patrick hesitates. “In the interests of us potentially working together, I did want to...come clean about something.”

“Okay?”

“I—” Patrick takes a deep breath, then glances over at the business license hanging behind the counter, the frame glinting in the sunlight. “I know that you hate the frame.”

“Oh.”

“You were very kind about it with Jamie, which I really appreciate, but.” He shakes his head. “I know that you hate it.”

“It’s just—it’s very corporate,” David says. “But, I mean, she’s young, she has plenty of time—”

“Uh, _I_ picked it out,” Patrick says, wincing. “And I see now that it’s not really your style.”

“I mean—” David starts, then shakes his head, unable to lie convincingly. “No, it’s not.”

Patrick shrugs. “Jamie wanted to get you the one covered in glitter, and I thought—”

“Yeah, no, thank you,” David agrees. “Both for sparing me the glitter, and for making it very clear that I will be making the creative decisions for the store. And I guess you can handle all of the business...stuff.”

“I’m very comfortable with that,” Patrick says, and the funny thing is, David is feeling pretty comfortable too.

****

They fall into an easy routine after that. David gets to the store around ten, unpacks boxes and labels product, spends the morning thinking about the flow of the store, the ambiance he wants to create. Slowly, it comes together. He sources a set of shelves that don’t make him want to gouge his eyes out, gets a bell for the door, meets with a contractor to do the windows. Every day, he comes in and sees something a little closer to what he’s been imagining.

Patrick does his work with Ray in the morning and comes by the store after lunch, setting up at the counter with his computer and tapping away with a serious look on his face. Sometimes David will leave on vendor visits; the woman with the cheeses is playing coy, which would be much more annoying if their meetings didn’t involve so many delicious samples. Most days, though, he and Patrick spend the afternoons at the store, together-but-not, each of them engaged in their own tasks. 

Occasionally Patrick will have a question about something business-related: how many cases of hand-carved spoons they have in stock (three), which insurance company David decided on (Marietta’s, in Elmdale; David still needs to call them), whether David has thought about their online marketing strategy ( _obviously_ ; Instagram only, for now, but he’s not opposed to an online store once they’re a little more established, and _no_ , they do not need a Facebook page, _ew_ ). Sometimes David will make Patrick help him move boxes or hold a ladder, and Patrick can even be trusted to unpack a box of product with enough direction (labels facing front, nozzles at a 45˚ angle, three inches of clearance at the edge of the table).

In the afternoons, Patrick leaves for a bit to pick up Jamie. Tuesday afternoons are baseball practice, but the rest of the time he brings her back to the store. David’s not great with kids, but Jamie’s pretty low-maintenance; Patrick sets her up at the counter with a book or her homework and she more or less does her own thing. Sometimes she’ll explain what she’s doing to Patrick, the two of them leaning together over a piece of paper and talking in quiet voices.

(“—so the entrance is under the water, but then they have a little house up in the lodge, and that’s where they live.”

“I see.” Patrick can’t possibly care this much about the construction of a beaver dam, but he hides it well, nodding intently as Jamie goes over the diagram she’s making for class. “So what do they do when the pond freezes over in the winter?”

“They store a bunch of food at the bottom of the pond, and they just go down to get it when they’re hungry,” Jamie says. “They don’t go outside at all.”

“Inside all winter?” Patrick glances over at David, his eyebrows raised. “Sounds cosy, doesn’t it?”

“Um, did you miss the part where all of their food is at the bottom of a frozen pond?” David shivers. “No _thank_ you.”

“You wouldn’t fit in a beaver dam,” Jamie says seriously. “You’re a lot bigger than a beaver.” She wrinkles her nose. “They’re bigger than I thought they were, though.”

David pauses. “How big _is_ a beaver?” He turns to Patrick. “Do _you_ know?”

“I have no idea.” Patrick turns to Jamie. “How do you think we could find that out, bug?”

And that’s how David learns that an adult beaver can weigh up to 30 kilos, which is certainly an exciting new piece of information for him to know and have nightmares about.)

When her schoolwork is done, Jamie mostly sits at the cash with a book or a pad of paper. Sometimes she’ll help with little tasks around the store: sweeping the floors, maybe, or checking a box of essential oils to make sure none of the bottles are cracked. She’s curious and careful, methodical, and David finds he doesn’t mind having her around. 

It’s nothing at all like David’s childhood, but it’s—sweet, maybe. Innocent. _Nice_.

***

Marshall Farms makes the most amazing blackberry preserves packed in raw-wood crate; they’re beautiful and original and a total nightmare to carry. David’s going to have to do a hand mask tonight instead of waiting for the weekend like a civilized human. 

“Fucking _fuck_.” Jamie and Patrick are out back flattening cardboard boxes, so David doesn’t censor himself as he fights the crate in the door and up onto the counter. “This fucking box is—oh my _God_!” There’s a woman watching him from next to the front table, a witness to David’s splinter ordeal.

“Hi, sorry,” she says, while David works on remembering how to breathe. “I didn’t want to interrupt your process.” She gestured to the box. “Doesn’t that have handles?”

“It does _not_ ,” David says. “Although that would make sense, yes.” He leans against the counter and studies her. She’s pretty, late twenties, red hair pulled back in a loose bun, wearing dark-wash jeans and a forest green vee-neck. It’s nothing fancy, but she makes the low-key, girl-next-door hotness work. “We’re not actually open yet, though."

“Oh, I know; I just wanted to stop by and see the place,” she answers. “I’ve heard a lot about it—it looks like it’s really coming together.” She taps her fingers on the box of body milk next to her hip. “And this stuff looks great. I’ve been looking for a good moisturizer for ages.”

“ _Thank_ you,” David says, clenching his hands into vindicated fists. “Thank you, seriously, _so much_ for not asking if you could drink it.”

“Why would I—” She frowns. “It’s _body_ milk. Why would I want to drink it?”

“I don’t know!” David flings up his arms. “I don’t know, but everybody and their cousin has asked me whether or not they can drink it, and it’s like—what do we think body milk is?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, hi, I’m David and I’m so happy to know that Rose Apothecary will have at least one customer with a fiber of common sense.”

“I’m Rachel,” she says. “Rachel Brewer.” 

David blinks. That means—

“Mom!” Jamie rockets in from the back door. “Hi, Mom!”

“Hey, baby,” Rachel says, crouching down to give Jamie a hug. Together like this, David can see the resemblance. They’ve got almost the same hair color, although Jamie’s is lighter and curlier, and Jamie’s smile is a miniature of Rachel’s. “You have a good time today?”

“We squished a _million_ boxes,” Jamie says, hugging back. “And Dad said that maybe we could build a fort out of one of the big ones sometime.”

“Did he, now,” Rachel says, looking up with a grin. “Well, that should be a fun project for you two.”

“Hey, Rachel,” Patrick says, leaning in the doorframe. “Done early?”

“My last patient cancelled,” she says, shrugging. “I figured I could leave the paperwork for tomorrow and come see if I could steal you two for some ice cream.” She stands back up and smiles at David. “So, yeah, I was about to say. I’m Rachel Brewer, Jamie’s mom.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” David says. He reaches out to shake her hand, which is warm and smooth; she clearly understands the value of moisturizing. “So you’re a—doctor?”

She nods. “I took over the clinic over on Maple Street. Thanks for letting these two hang around.” She glances at her husband and daughter. “I hope they haven’t been too much trouble.”

“ _Jamie_ has been very helpful,” David says pointedly. “I have no complaints about _Jamie’s_ work ethic or sense of humor.” Over Rachel’s shoulder, he can see Patrick shaking his head, laughing quietly.

“I actually want to stay and finish our sales tax permit application, but you two should go get ice cream,” Patrick says.

Jamie pouts. “Dad, you’re not coming?” 

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Patrick, did you miss the part where I just said that I’m playing hooky? Come on,” she says. “You’re not going to make me be the bad influence parent all on my own, are you?”

“ _Ice cream_ , dad,” Jamie insists. It’s a very compelling argument, David has to admit.

“What, and you want me to leave David to deal with—” Patrick lifts a jar and inspects it dubiously, “with organic blackberry preserves? All on his own?”

“Okay, _first_ of all,” David reaches out to rescue the jar from Patrick’s grasp, “I’m more than a little hurt that you don’t think I could deal with the preserves on my own.” He glances over at Rachel, who smirks but doesn’t say anything about David’s struggles with the crate. “And secondly, your daughter raises an excellent point,” he adds. “ _Ice cream_ , Patrick. How can you argue with ice cream?”

“You’re welcome to join us, David.” Rachel says. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“Oh, uh.” David blinks frantically. “No, that’s, I wouldn’t want to—”

“Nuh-uh.” Patrick shakes his head. “If I have to go, you have to go.”

“I don’t want to—” 

“ _Ice cream_ , David.” Patrick’s smile is entirely too smug. “You said it yourself.”

“You did say that,” Rachel agrees. “Like, literally just now, you said that.”

“Okay, fine but that’s not what I meant.” David turns to face them, hands on his hips, and immediately feels his determination waver. They’re just so damn _charming_ , these Brewers, all red-gold curls and sincerity. It should be illegal for them to be this adorable. “But I mean, I guess if you _insist_ —”

Jamie, clearly sensing that victory is at hand, lets out a whoop. “Ice cream!”

They lock up the store and step out into the bright spring afternoon. Twyla’s cousin’s girlfriend’s stepmother sets up a stand in front of the pharmacy, and that’s where they head.

“Sorry about that,” Patrick says, as Rachel and Jamie walk ahead of them. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Please never apologize for ice cream,” David tells him. It’s a beautiful day, warm and sunny with just the right amount of breeze. The light glows in Jamie’s curls, glints gently against Rachel’s hair when she leans down to listen carefully to her daughter. Set against a suitably scenic sky, they’re an Instagram sensation in the making; it makes David’s heart clench.

Mrs. Lavalle only makes three flavors—chocolate, vanilla, and green tea—but she knows what she’s doing. They order their cones and settle at the picnic table, Jamie chattering about school and who said what to whom on the playground.

“And then _Emma_ said that Addison was wrong, _and_ she said that—”

“Wait, wait, Emma?” David shakes his head. Beaver dams and pulleys he can skip, but this is better than any E! exclusive. “Isn’t she the one who didn’t know how many months were in the year until, like, last week? Why do we care what _she_ thinks?” Listening to Jamie’s stories, David feels like parenting can’t possibly be as hard as he’s always imagined, at least based on how badly some of her classmates’ parents are fucking up.

“Well, we should get back,” Patrick says eventually, collecting the napkins and balling them up. “See you for dinner?”

“Six thirty, no excuses,” Rachel says, and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “David, lovely to meet you at last.”

“Absolutely,” David says, and means it.

***

David fucks Sebastien Raine, and then he fucks Sebastien Raine over, and he doesn’t feel bad about either one.

He takes his mother out for a celebratory brunch at the café. She’s in rare form, incisive and sparkling, and they spend a good hour and a half tearing into everything about Sebastien: his hair, his stupid artisanally-ripped shirts, that ridiculously pretentious show he did in Malta. David’s always felt closest to his mother, and this is why. At her best, Moira Rose is a force to be reckoned with, and if today’s not her best, well.

It’s still a good fucking day.

They trade air-kisses at the door and Moira swans off to City Hall. David crosses the street to the shop, floating on high that’s somewhere between just-fucked and go-fuck-yourself.

Patrick is there already, sitting at the counter with Jamie, the two of them bent over something. They look up when David opens the door, tilting their heads at the exact same angle.

“David!” Jamie jumps up, brandishing a sheet of paper. “David, look! I have to find six examples of things that reflect light and draw them, and I already found _four_!” She points around the room. “The bottles reflect light, and so does that bowl on the wall, and so does the table, and—” she pauses, frowning at her drawing. “What was the other one, Dad?”

“The, ah—” Patrick clears his throat. “The fridge, honey.” He nods to David. “Morning.”

“Right!” Jamie rushes back to the counter, leaping up onto the stool. David can see her mouthing the letters to _refrigerator_ as she labels her drawing. She looks back up, then gasps. “And your jacket!” She bends back to the paper, drawing furiously.

“Hi,” David says, and he doesn’t feel bad, he _doesn’t_ , he just—well. He feels a little weird about talking to his business partner’s preteen daughter when he’s pretty sure there’s a hickey on the inside of his left thigh. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d both be here this morning.”

“Just for a little while,” Patrick says. “Rachel’s taking Jamie to the movies with her friends, but she had an early-morning consult, so.” He shrugs. “We can head out, if you want?”

“No, no,” David says, and shakes the feeling off. “It’s fine, it’s—sorry, just a weird morning.” He pauses, thinking. “Weird week, really.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “I know how that goes.” He looks a little flushed, a wash of color on his neck, the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. 

David frowns. “Did you forget sunscreen at Jamie’s baseball game? Honestly, Patrick.” David crosses over to the fridge. “It’s like you don’t work at a store that offers a wide variety of high-quality, hypoallergenic skin care products.” He pulls a jar out, then snatches a tube from the box behind the counter.

“What are—”

“Broad-spectrum mineral sunscreen, for next time,” David says, putting the tube in Patrick’s hand, “and certified 50% aloe-vera lotion, for right now.” He hands over the jar. “Trust me, it feels amazing on a sunburn.” Or other kinds of burns, actually—rugburn, rope burn, beard burn—but David’s not going to mention that right now.

“I—thank you, David.” Patrick takes the jars. “That’s...very thoughtful.”

“Well, you can’t represent the store with peeling skin,” David says. Honestly, ew. 

Patrick unscrews the jar. “Hey, Jamie,” he says, “what do you think about this?”

Jamie pronounces the lotion acceptably reflective and then spends some quality time explaining the difference between emitted and reflected light to David. Patrick goes back to the computer, irregular tapping settling into steady background noise. In what feels like no time at all, Rachel is there, sweeping Jamie away to see the latest animated blockbuster with her friends.

“Is everything okay?” David is setting out the reclaimed barnwood cutting boards; he turns around and raises an eyebrow at Patrick. “Sorry, just.” Patrick shrugs. “I know it’s kind of awkward, having Jamie around,” he says. “I can look into a babysitter, if you want, or—”

“My ex is in town,” David says. “Or was, I guess. He’s probably gone by now.”

“I—okay?” Patrick bites his lip. “Or, uh. Not okay?”

“Not okay,” David confirms. “He’s—god, he’s completely insufferable, you’d hate him. He’s a photographer, very good in an incredibly pretentious way.”

Patrick nods. “And he’s in town because you two...”

“Oh my _God_ , no,” David says, and his laugh isn’t as bitter as he might have expected. “No, he actually wanted to convince my _mother_ to do a photoshoot.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, but it’s clear he’s still not getting it.

“He told her he wanted her for an international shoot, but then he got her into a field and took a bunch of pictures without her permission,” David explains. “Which is _incredibly_ typical for him, honestly.” He shudders, remembering their relationship, all of the ways Sebastien found of turning the inches David gave into uncomfortable miles.

“Are you—is your mom—” Patrick frowns. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine now,” David says. “I may have, uh. _Persuaded_ him to give me the memory card with the photos on it.” 

“Oh, well—”

“I fucked him,” David says, in a rush. “Mostly to get the memory card, a little bit for revenge.” He turns back to the cutting boards, away from whatever Patrick’s face is doing right now. “And now that I’m telling it, I realize that this story doesn’t reflect super-well on me as a person, so, um.” He swallows. “If you’re going to leave, could you please at least finish the grants first?” The sound of the cutting boards against the table is deafening, almost enough to drown out the rush of David’s heartbeat. “It’s just, I honestly think I have some kind of an allergy to paperwork, and—”

“I submitted the grants last week,” Patrick says. “We should hear back in a month or two.”

“Um, okay.” David says. “So—that’s good, then.”

“It is.” David can hear Patrick’s footsteps as he moves out from behind the counter, coming to stand just behind David. Even with that forewarning, the sudden weight of Patrick’s hand on his shoulder is a shock. “David—”

Suddenly the only thing worse than looking at Patrick is not looking at him; David turns. Patrick’s face is still and serious, his pale eyebrows drawn.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry about your ex,” Patrick says eventually. “He sounds like an asshole.”

“Your talent for understatement is very impressive,” David says, and almost manages the airy laugh he’s going for. “He’s a complete waste of designer fashion and breathable air.” Patrick still looks uncomfortable, though, which means that the problem isn’t Sebastien, and if it’s not Sebastien— David takes a deep breath. “I can—if you want me to spend less time around Jamie, or—”

“What? No,” Patrick rocks back like he’s been slapped. “God, no, David.” He shakes his head. “Jamie thinks you’re great.”

“Well, she has good taste,” David says. He’s pretty sure Jamie doesn’t think about him much at all, honestly.

“A high compliment.” Patrick smiles. “Seriously, though,” he says, stepping back. “I’m sorry your ex is an asshole, but I’m glad you got, uh. What you needed?” 

“Well, _that’s_ an overstatement.” David rolls his eyes. “But—yeah. Thanks.”

***

The weather’s nice enough now that Patrick walks over to pick Jamie up after school. It’s only a few blocks, so the walk takes about fifteen minutes most days; twenty if they stop in at the café to talk with Twyla or swing by the park. When Patrick is gone for more than half an hour on a sunny Thursday afternoon, David doesn’t get worried, not exactly. Sure, he finds himself looking up at every hint of motion in the window, every passing car or pedestrian, but he’s not worried. He’s just...aware of the absence of Brewer _père_ and Brewer _fille_.

When they do arrive, it’s been almost an hour. David opens his mouth to ask, but shuts it immediately when he gets a good look at them. Jamie’s face is blotchy and her lower lip is trembling furiously. Next to her, Patrick’s jaw is set, his shoulders tight as he locks the door behind them.

“Hey, David,” he says, guiding Jamie around the table. “How are the shawls?” Patrick clears his throat, glancing down at Jamie and then over to the table of shawls, his eyebrows tilted meaningfully. 

“Um, they’re…” David spent a good hour and a half folding and sorting the hand-woven silk shawls this morning, and they look _perfect_ , a gorgeous rainbow of rich, soft fabric, a delight for vision and touch alike. He turns back to Patrick to say as much.

“They’re really pretty, David.” Jamie wipes her nose on her sleeve. “You did a good job.” She’s snotty and disgusting, her lower lip wobbling ominously, blinking back tears as she looks at his beautiful display.

“I don’t know,” David hears himself say, the words coming out of his mouth without any conscious decision on his part. “I think maybe I do want to sort them by texture after all.” He taps his chin. “And they’ll need to be folded completely differently, but, ugh, that’s so much work.” 

It feels stilted and staged, but Patrick gives a hint of a nod as he sets a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. Something uncurls in David’s chest, warm and protective and unfamiliar.

“Hey, kiddo—do you think you could help David fold shawls for a bit?” Jamie sniffs and nods, so David shows her how to fold the shawls—lengthwise twice, then into thirds—and clears a space for her to set them out when she’s done.

“Thank you,” Patrick murmurs, once Jamie’s engaged in her work. “She got into it with a kid at school today and Rachel has appointments all afternoon.” He rests a hand on David’s shoulder, warm and solid.

“She’s a good worker,” David says. “It’s no problem.” Jamie’s making good progress, but her arms are a little short to manage the first fold. David steps forward to grab the trailing corner, helps her bring the edges together neatly.

“Thanks, Jamie,” he says. “Now, I want to set them up from roughest to smoothest, left to right.” David gestures at the spread of shawls, outlining the flow he wants to create. “Which do you think we should start with?” Jamie tilts her head, reaches out and pets a few shawls before tapping the one with, yes, the coarsest weave. “I completely agree.” David sets it in the appropriate corner of the display. “And I was thinking one of these two next, but I’m not sure.” They work through the pile like that, and Jamie seems to settle down some as she runs her hands over the fabric, sinking into the process.

“Hey, Jamie,” Patrick breaks in, when they’re wrapping up. “Mom should be out of her appointment now. Do you want to call her?” Jamie’s face threatens to crumple, but she swallows and nods, taking the phone and letting Patrick settle her at the counter.

“Everything okay?”

Patrick sighs. “Mother’s Day was last weekend,” he says. “And apparently some little _asshole_ —” it comes out a hiss, barely more than a whisper, Patrick glancing over his shoulder at Jamie, “—felt like getting into it with Jamie, because of Rachel and me.”

“Kids suck,” David agrees, rather than tugging on _that_ particular conversational thread. It’s none of his business if Patrick and Rachel are having problems. Patrick is his _partner_ , in the strictly non-sexy sense of the word. “I mean—kids suck, present company excluded, obviously.”

Patrick laughs, short but honest. “Yeah, I know.” He reaches out and strokes one of the shawls with the back of his hand. “Thanks for distracting her.”

“No problem, honestly.” David smirks. “She’s better at this than you are, that’s for sure,” he adds, which surprises another laugh out of Patrick. They stand like that for a while, giving some privacy while Jamie talks to her mom. She doesn’t seem to be crying, at least, which is probably a good thing.

“It’s tough on her,” Patrick says, after a moment. “I mean, she’s a great kid, she’s doing great, but.” He shrugs. “I worry that it’s hard for her, I guess.”

“Well.” Of everybody in Schitt’s Creek, David probably isn’t the _least_ qualified to offer emotional support to a struggling parent, but that’s only because Alexis hasn’t managed to find a way out of town yet. “I mean, my parents both worked when I was a kid, and I turned out great?”

“What?” Patrick blinks, frowning. “No, I mean because we’re divorced.”

“Oh.” Now it’s David’s turn to blink, pieces of information shifting into a new context. “Oh. My parents are...not that.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, with a little laugh. “Yeah, I’d noticed.” 

“Ew.” Objectively, yes, it’s great that David’s parents are still deeply in love after forty years of marriage, but they don’t have to be so fucking gross about it.

“Oh, come on, David,” Patrick says. “I think it’s sweet.”

“You didn’t have to help my mother pack a suitcase of ‘intimates’ when we moved here,” David says, grimacing. “Nor do you share a wall with my parents.”

“Oh.” Patrick looks vaguely ill, which means he’s finally having the appropriate response here.

“It’s a very thin wall,” David says, just to rub things in a bit, but then takes pity on them both and changes the subject. “So, divorce! Um.” Not, now that he’s considering it, his smoothest segue ever. “Was it—should I be—is this more of a ‘congratulations!’ or a ‘my sympathies’ sort of thing?” He starts tidying the bottles of toner, just to have something to do with his hands. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to talk about this, never mind.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says. “We were high school sweethearts, she got pregnant, we got married.” He shrugs. “You know how it goes.”

“Yes,” says David, who absolutely does not. “I know how that goes.”

Patrick’s smile is small, a little rueful. “Anyway, it turns out we weren’t great at that last part, so.” He picks up a jar of lotion and smoothes his thumb over the edge of the label. “We split up right before Jamie started junior kindergarten.”

“And she’s—nine, right?” David got treated to a miniature TED talk on the many wonderful properties of the number nine last week, so he’s relatively confident, but it’s still a relief when Patrick nods.

“Ten in July.”

“Dad!” Jamie’s looking up and waving the phone at Patrick. David can see Rachel’s face on the screen and hopes she has a strong stomach. “Mom wants to talk to you!”

“Thanks, David,” Patrick says, and goes to take the phone from his daughter. His shoulder brushes against David’s as he passes, warm and solid.

****

Objectively, it’s a great thing that Patrick and Stevie hit it off so well. Stevie’s his best friend and Patrick’s his business partner. Outside of his family—and sometimes counting his family, honestly—they’re basically the only people in this town that David can stand. It’s good that they get along.

“Stevie, right?” Patrick shakes her hand. “Patrick, and this is Jamie.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Jamie says, holding out her hand for a handshake of her own. “David talks about you a lot.”

“None of it is true,” Stevie says, shaking Jamie’s hand and shooting a glance over her shoulder at David.

“He says you’re his best friend,” Jamie says.

“ _One of,_ ” David clarifies as Stevie raises her eyebrows at him. “ _One_ of my best friends, I think, is what I said.”

“One of how many, exactly?” Patrick is smirking.

“I like him,” Stevie says, her eyes sparkling, then turns back to Patrick. “I like you.”

“Okay,” David says, “is this how this is going to go? Because we have way too much work to do today for me to feel attacked by way of an imbalanced social dynamic.” He looks at Jamie. “Jamie, you’re on my side, right? Come help me sort these.”

“Sure,” Jamie says, and trots over to David, because she’s a sweet kid. “Why are you wearing a shower cap?” she asks, and David takes it all back, she’s a monster, because suddenly everybody is staring at him and the stupid shower cap that won’t stay hidden.

“Alexis has lice,” he says. “I’m taking preventative measures.”

Jamie’s whole face wrinkles up. “Lice are _gross_ ,” she informs him, as if he didn’t already know. “I had them in grade three and Dad had to brush my hair, like, eighteen million times.” 

“Fun for everybody, right, bug?” Patrick ruffles her hair. “We got pretty good at it by the end, though.”

“Yeah, but it still _sucked_.” Jamie shakes her head in world-weary disgust. “And you’re going to have to wash that hat, too.”

“Hmmm, yeah.” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest. “Actually, isn’t that one of our hats, David?” He narrows his eyes. “One of our hats that we now can’t sell?”

“Oh, he doesn’t have lice,” Stevie chimes in. “I checked his head. I think that the shower cap is more of a fashion choice at this point.”

“But if your sister has lice, you could still get it from her tonight, or tomorrow.” Jamie frowns. “I got lice from Sally Carter, and I just _sat_ next to her.” She screws up her face, looking at David. “You should stay with us until your sister doesn’t have lice anymore,” she says firmly, then glances over at Patrick. “Dad, can he stay with us tonight?” She looks back to David. “You could stay in my room!”

“I think David might prefer to stay in a grown-up bed, sweetie,” Patrick says. “But we do have an air mattress, if you want it,” he adds, glancing at David. “We don’t have a ton of space, but you’re welcome to crash.”

“Stevie offered her place this morning, actually,” David says, and ignores the face Stevie makes at him. “But thank you.”

The evening starts out great. David makes fun of her second toothbrush, they drink vodka, he fills her in on all of the ridiculous bullshit that’s gone into setting up the store, she tells him a completely absurd story about his dad trying to unclog a toilet. He wouldn’t change the store for anything, but he honestly has missed her, even if all she has in her fridge are some sad hard-boiled eggs.

“I bet _Patrick’s_ fridge is fully stocked,” she says, and nope, no he hasn’t, he has missed her not at all.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’s got his life together,” Stevie says. “Cute wife, too.” She looks over at him. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t take him up on his invitation.” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that she probably thinks is seductive.

“Hang on.” David wrinkles his nose. “When did _you_ meet Rachel?” 

Stevie gives him a withering look. “She took over literally the only medical practice in town,” she points out, which is fair. “And unlike you, I occasionally talk to people I’m not related to.” Which is—also fair, unfortunately. “She’s cute and she doesn’t take any crap; I figured you’d be all over that.”

“You’re revolting,” David informs her. “And for your information, _Jamie_ was the one who invited me over.”

“I mean, yeah, but I assumed you’d wait until the kid went to bed before getting her parents to Eiffel Tower you.”

“They’re—not,” David says. He can tell Stevie was expecting him to squawk and flail, but his answer comes out soft and uncertain. “Not married, I mean.” 

“Um, since when?”

“Since a while ago?” David shrugs, sideways and awkward against the pillows. “Before they got here.”

“So Patrick just, what.” Stevie raises an eyebrow. “He picked up his life and moved when his ex-wife got a new job?”

“He does a lot of freelance accounting stuff,” David says. “And he’s a good dad.”

“He’s a _really_ good dad,” Stevie agrees. She sounds impressed. “And a pretty eligible bachelor, apparently.”

Stevie falls asleep quickly, her breathing evening out next to him, but David can’t. He stares up at the streetlights bending across Stevie’s ceiling, arms folded across his chest, and lets himself feel it, finally: the feeling he’s been dodging and ducking and pushing aside for weeks now, the feeling that gets stronger every time Patrick smiles at him or teases him or rests a hand on his shoulder. It’s not just that he appreciates Patrick’s business skills and his faith in the store; it’s not just that seeing Patrick with Jamie, how kind and patient and careful he is, makes something clench greedily in David’s chest. It’s not even the way that Patrick fills out his stupid blue button-downs, the way the light catches his eyes sometimes, the way his ass looks when he bends over to pick up a box.

David has a huge fucking crush on Patrick, which is—it’s fine. 

He’s never going to do anything about it, so it’s fine.


	2. Chapter 2

Fortunately, David doesn’t have time to think about Patrick. He doesn’t have time to think of anything, really, because the store is finally coming together. 

They put up the sign on Monday morning, gleaming in the sunlight. The next day, the crew comes to paint the windows. David maybe spends a little too much time admiring the way the shadows move across the wall as the sun sets, the way the crisp lines fall across shelves that are increasingly full of actual products. As they unpack, Jamie flattens cardboard boxes with gleeful abandon. 

They even manage to negotiate a contract with the cheese vendor, albeit one that’s short-term and not exclusive.

“I mean, I don’t blame her, though,” Patrick says around a mouthful of a completely exquisite _tomme de chèvre_. “If I made cheese that was this good, I wouldn’t want to commit to an exclusive contract right away, either.”

“Dad, don’t eat with your mouth full!” Jamie wrinkles her nose. “That’s gross.”

“Your daughter is right.” David spreads the last sliver of the cheese across a slice of fresh bread. “Also, this cheese deserves your full attention.” He takes a bite, demonstrating correct etiquette and proper cheese appreciation by not talking.

“Well, I think our customers deserve the chance to sample it for themselves,” Patrick says. “Which means that we need to leave some for them to buy, David.”

David gestures to his mouth, still stuffed with cheese and bread, as an excuse for his lack of response. It’s his store, after all; he can sample as much cheese as he wants.

The opening itself is a subject of considerable discussion Patrick wants to make an event out of it, which is just _so_ not the mood David is going for. Fortunately, Patrick ultimately agrees to a soft opening with only a little bit of teasing.

David just has to fold these sweaters, call the electrician, re-organize the mixing bowls, finalize the guest list, and not stare at Patrick’s mouth. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

It’s fine, right up until Wednesday. On Wednesday afternoon, David stops at the café and Twyla gives him two tuna melts and the news that _she’ll_ be attending the opening, as will an appalling proportion of her family, Bob, and _Gwen_ , whoever that is. 

David hates tuna melts, but the news is even worse. He rushes back to the store and finds Patrick and Jamie are bent over the counter looking at the light fixtures.

“Um, how many people did _you_ tell about Friday?”

Patrick glances up and frowns. “Just the names on my pre-approved list. Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” David says, unpacking the sandwiches, “I have been approached by a lot of people who are _not_ on the pre-approved list.”

“Well, you know, sometimes when you tell everyone that it’s exclusive...” Patrick shrugs. “Everybody just wants in.” Patrick doesn’t seem to be getting the gravity of the situation, but he must see something in David’s face, because he pauses. “Like, how many people are we talking about?”

“Um, I don’t know,” David says. “Twyla’s whole family, so, like.” He shrugs. “Seventy five?”

Patrick takes a deep breath, lips pursed. “We should have ordered more food and wine.” He shrugs. “Looks like this soft launch is firming up a bit, hmm?”

“Yes,” David says, “but it’s not supposed to be firm.”

“Well, with this many people, it’s definitely at least semi-firm.”

“Okay, well, as long as it doesn’t get hard,” David says, and is suddenly excruciatingly aware of Jamie sitting at the counter. “That’s something—that’s what I just said to you. Um.” Jamie is doing something with brightly-colored string and seems to be ignoring them, but still. _Professionalism_. David grimaces apologetically, but Patrick just shrugs.

“Hey, Jamie,” he says. “You want some of my sandwich?”

“She can have mine.” David taps the boxes on the counter. “Twyla gave us both tuna melts, somehow, so I’m just going to eat a granola bar and do some deep breathing.”

Patrick’s ears are pink again, and David makes a mental note to remind him about the sunscreen. It doesn’t do him any good if he never remembers to wear it.

***

The opening itself is a rush, both in the sense that there’s a huge crowd—they really should have ordered more food and wine; David only got two of the little cucumber sandwich things—and in the sense that David feels like he’s flying the entire time. Forget drugs, forget sex: all of these people are here to see something he built, something he pulled together out of the shreds of luxury available to him in this town. More than that, they _like_ it. If David could bottle this feeling, he’d never drink anything else, never wear any other cologne, just drench himself in _eau de success_ for the rest of his life.

David’s parents are even there, for once _not_ looking wildly out of place. His mother’s air kiss nearly makes contact with his face, and his dad keeps grabbing products to look at the ROSE APOTHECARY label, his eyebrows furrowing in what David is almost certain is approval. Alexis is there too, clinging to Ted’s arm, and David is in such a good mood that he slips an extra lip balm into her bag when he’s ringing her up. It’s one of the ones she ‘sampled’ while she was here unpacking, so it’s not like he’ll be able to sell it anyway. 

Stevie even comes by, ducking through the crush of the crowd and giving David a quick, tight hug.

“This place is so cute I almost hate it,” she says. “But I don’t.” 

“I’m simply bowled over by your kind words.” David rolls his eyes and hugs her back.

Throughout it all, there’s Patrick. David sees Patrick at the counter, wrapping bottles of toner with careful hands. He sees Patrick smiling and explaining the difference between the lambswool sweaters and the merino to one of the women from the garden store. Just as David is thinking that they’re about to run short on the wine, there’s Patrick bringing out a fresh case from the back room. Patrick looked up YouTube tutorials and installed the lights that David forgot. Patrick called the insurance company. Patrick is _there_ , solid and reliable and in this with David.

Not that David feels any particular kind of way about this, of course. It’s just a relief to have someone he can count on for a change. That’s all that it is.

A few hours in, David feels a tap on his shoulder and turns to see Rachel beaming at him. Jamie is next to her, bouncing up and down.

“The place looks great, David,” Rachel says. 

“There’s a _lot_ of people,” Jamie informs him. “I saw Mr. Gagnon and Ms. Wilson and Mrs. Wong and _Sarah Allen_.” David looks at Rachel, who shakes her head and shrugs.

“Well, that’s very impressive,” David says, rather than ask who any of those people are and what they’re doing at his exclusive VIP event. “I think your dad is at the register, if you want to go say hi to him.”

“We saw him already,” Jamie says. “I want to show Mom the shawls I folded!” She stands on her tiptoes and twists around, trying to spot the display through the crowd. “Over there, mom, look!” She tugs on Rachel’s hand to pull her along.

“Nice to see you,” David says, watching them go. Rachel nods at him in amused tolerance, but Jamie stops in her tracks.

“David, you have to come too.” She doubles back to grab his wrist. “You have to tell Mom about the shawl lady.”

“Sweetie, David’s busy.” Rachel shoots David an apologetic smile. “He’s got a lot of other people to help today.” 

“No, not at all.” David lets himself be towed over to the shawl display. “Jamie did lovely work.”

“Ugh, but it’s all _messy_ now!” Jamie crosses her arms over her chest. “Nobody put them back right.” She snatches the nearest shawl—which really is badly folded; David is disappointed in their clientele—and shakes it out, turning to David. “Can you do the big fold? David’s arms are really long,” she tells Rachel, who looks like she’s fighting back laughter. “So he does the first fold, and then I do the rest of them.” David takes the shawl and brings the corners together, settling the edges carefully in Jamie’s hands. “Thanks! And then we do another fold like this, and then we bring the sides in so it’s in thirds, and then it looks good.” She places the shawl back on the display with a satisfied little nod.

“Very nice, sweetie.” Rachel reaches out to run a hand over the fabric without disturbing the fold. “Is it silk?”

Jamie nods. “It’s mulberry silk! But it doesn’t come from a tree, it comes from a worm that lives on a tree.” Rachel glances over at David, who nods in confirmation.

“There’s a woman out in Elm Prairie who makes her own silk,” he explains. “Her niece and nephew do the hand-weaving.”

“They showed me the loom,” Jamie adds. “It’s a box with like a million little strings, and they go back and forth with the other string and they make _patterns_. It’s really cool.”

“Very cool.” Rachel rests a hand gently on Jamie’s head. “I had no idea there was anything like that around here.”

“Life is a rich tapestry.” David shrugs. He’s hit a lot of duds, looking for local artisans for the store, but Mrs. Beaulieu was a real find.

“Hey there.” Patrick’s standing behind Rachel, grinning. “Showing Mom all of your shawls?”” He leans in for a hug, brushing a kiss across Rachel’s cheek.

“Yup!” Jamie is struggling with the ends of another shawl; David reaches in and holds a corner for her while she brings the other end across. “And I told her about the worms that make the silk.”

“I am suitably impressed,” Rachel says. “Both by the shawls and by the store. It really does look great.” She glances around the store. “You’ve done good work here.”

“It’s all David.” Patrick shrugs. “I’m just the numbers guy.”

“Yeah, okay.” David rolls his eyes. “The numbers guy, and the insurance guy, and the guy who installed the lights, and the guy who checked to make sure the sign people had the right paint—which they _didn’t_ , and it would have been a complete disaster—” He shakes his head. “I mean, obviously I’m the guiding aesthetic influence, here, but you shouldn’t undersell your contributions, Patrick.”

“I’m sorry, wait.” Rachel looks between the two of them, her eyebrows raised. “You let Patrick install lights? Like, with electricity?” She grimaces.

“Hey, I watched a bunch of YouTube tutorials—”

“Listen, I’m just saying, I remember Christmas of 2011, even if you don’t.” She shoots David a conspiratorial look, her eyes crinkling. “Almost set the entire tree on fire.”

“That whole string was defective, that’s not my fault!”

“Tell that to our security deposit, babe.” Rachel rolls her eyes, but it’s fond, sharp edges worn down by the weight of time and familiarity.

“Okay, can I help you find something, or are you just here to make fun of me?” Patrick’s snippy tone is offset by the gentle warmth of his smile, the obvious affection in the way he looks at Rachel.

“You think I can’t do both?” She leans in to give David a hug, backing away before he can really react. “We’ll let you get back to work, but seriously, congratulations.” She turns to Jamie. “Okay, what else do I need to see around here?”

The rest of the night passes in a whirl of customers and conversation, until suddenly David’s flipping the sign to CLOSED and turning back to face the empty store. 

Mostly-empty, at least. Patrick is at the register, counting out cash with Jamie’s help. Rachel is at the back of the store looking at the the unisex Mennonite perfumes. 

“Well, this was a success,” David says into the quiet. Patrick looks up from the stack of bills in front of him and smiles.

“I would say so, yeah. Although, you know, we’d be twenty-five percent richer if we’d just done a hard launch—”

“Dad!” Jamie frowns up at him. “You’re messing me up!”

“Sorry, kiddo.” Patrick ruffles her hair. “I’ll let you count.” He steps out from behind the counter and raises his glass to David. “Congratulations, David,” he says. “Here’s to being officially open, and never talking about launch strategies again.”

“I’ll drink to that.” David takes a glass from the drinks table. The prosecco is warm and going flat, but it tastes like victory.

“—seventy-eight, seventy-nine!” Jamie jumps down from her stool. “Dad, you have two hundred and seventy-nine ten-dollar bills, is that right?”

“It is, bug,” Patrick says. “Good job.” He rests his hand on her hair and pulls her close. Jamie leans against his side, yawning. “It’s getting kind of late, though, so we should probably say good night soon.”

“Mmkay,” Jamie says, yawning, then detaches from Patrick’s side to wrap her arms around David. “Congratulations,” she says into his ribcage. “You made a lot of money today.”

“Thank you,” David says, letting his hand rest awkwardly on Jamie’s shoulder. He’s gotten used to having her around the store, but it’s still startling to have her skinny arms wrapped around his waist, her mop of curls nestled against his ribcage. She seems delicate in a way that has nothing to do with her scraped elbows or the deplorable state of her shoes. “You were a big help, Jamie.”

“And Dad!” Jamie looks over her shoulder at Patrick. “Come on, Dad, sandwich hug!”

“Sandwich hug?”

Patrick shakes his head. “It’s a whole thing—Jamie, honey, I don’t think David needs a sandwich hug right now.”

“Not for him, for me! Daaaaad,” she says when Patrick hesitates. “Come on, Dad, sandwich hug!” 

“Okay, okay.” Patrick steps forward, his hands light on David’s shoulders with Jamie tucked between them. “Sorry,” he mutters in David’s ear. “I know it’s—”

“It’s fine.” David pulls a hand free to rest it on Patrick’s back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Awww.” Rachel’s voice comes from behind David, warm and wry. “Is there room for me in this sandwich hug?”

“Come on, Mom!” Rachel drapes her arms around their shoulders, the three of them making a lopsided triangle around Jamie. 

“This is, uh.” It’s weird. David is intensely aware of his hand against Patrick’s spine, the warm gust of Rachel’s breath against his face, the unfamiliar pressure of Jamie’s elbows against his stomach. It’s such an unmistakably familial moment, and David’s not part of this family unit. It should feel claustrophobic and awkward, David the odd man out in this swell of quiet, affectionate intimacy.

Instead it just feels...strange. David isn’t sure he likes it, but he’s also not sure that he doesn’t.

“This is a very odd sandwich,” David manages eventually.

Patrick steps back with a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’m not sure about the structural integrity.”

Rachel scoffs. “You’re just mad because you’re not the tallest person in the hug anymore.” She scrubs her fingers through Patrick’s hair. “Seriously, though, congratulations,” she says, smiling at the two of them. “You did a great job.”

“We really did.” Patrick smiles at David and David can’t help but smile back.

He can’t, and he doesn’t want to.

***

David floats on the triumph of the opening for three glorious weeks. 

Business is brisk, with a steady flow of people through the store all day long. They have to re-order the hypoallergenic moisturizer twice, and they’re down to the last box of hand-thrown soup bowls. David doesn’t even have to go in early, because Patrick has to be up anyway to get Jamie to school, so _he_ gets to be awake with the sun and open the store. 

David comes in at 10:30 and they work most of the day together, the mid-morning bump and the after-work rush, talking easily in the lulls. Patrick gets Jamie from school in the afternoon, and then leaves early and David closes the store down on his own. Sometimes Stevie comes by to chat, or his mother, but most nights it’s just David, setting his store to rights in the long spring evenings. It’s enough variation to keep things from being dull, but never enough to feel overwhelming. David settles into his new rhythm with what even he can admit is a shocking lack of difficulty.

And then David’s family forgets his fucking birthday.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really. David knows for a fact that his dad’s PA picked out David’s last six birthday presents pre-Schitt’s Creek; given the alternative, he’d considered it a blessing. He and Alexis haven’t been on the same continent for either of their birthdays in years, with the exception of the time that he was at Milan fashion week and she was on a raft in the Mediterranean.

And his mom...well. Moira Rose lives in her own world. David is used to it, he really is.

David’s bad does lift slightly when he sees the store. Sure, his family is full of self-centered inconsiderate assholes, but this is his: his beautiful store, black and gold and _one of a kind_. This is real. This _matters_.

David takes a deep breath and pushes open the door—

—only to stop short, grabbing frantically at the door frame for balance, as Jamie Brewer flings herself at him.

“Happy Birthday!” She beams up at him and David can feel himself smiling back, involuntary and uncertain. “Happy Birthday, David!”

“I—what?”

“Jamie, honey.” Patrick steps forward, hand outstretched. “Maybe let David breathe? You know he’s not great at mornings.”

“No, I’m just—” There’s no word for the feeling gnawing at David’s breastbone, curling around his lungs. “How did you even know it was my birthday?”

Jamie looks up at him and rolls her eyes. “It’s on the _calendar_ ,” she says witheringly, which doesn’t explain nearly as much as she clearly thinks it does. David looks to Patrick, who shrugs.

“She did that project on birthday celebrations last month, and I think you told her then?” Which does sound vaguely familiar, now that David has some context.

“I didn’t—” David swallows. “I didn’t realize that I was on the calendar, is all.”

“Um, _yeah._ ” Jamie releases him with one final squeeze. “I’ve got you, and Mom and Dad, and Grandma and Grandpa and Nana and Pop-Pop, and Sally, and Nasim, and Olivia, and—”

“Jamie, do you want to give David your present?” Jamie’s eyes go wide and she darts off to the back room, skidding around the corner. “Sorry, I didn’t think.” Patrick turns back to David, his face reluctantly amused. “She’s really into birthdays right now.”

“No, it’s fine.” David tugs at his sweater, rumpled from the force of Jamie’s hug. “Surprising, but fine—oh, okay,” he says, as Jamie rockets back into the main room. “Thank you, that’s very sweet of you.”

“Open it, open it!” Jamie bounces on her tiptoes, hugging herself.

“Jamie, remember what we talked about?” Patrick tilts his head meaningfully, and Jamie sighs.

“You don’t have to open it now if you’d rather wait,” she parrots obediently, then adds, “but _please_ will you open it, I want you to see!”

“ _But_ if you’d rather wait until later, that’s fine, too.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “Jamie, bug, we talked about this. Some people like to wait and open their presents all at the same time, with their friends and their family.”

“No, actually, I—” David clears his throat. “I’d rather open it now, if that’s okay?” Jamie cheers, Patrick nods, and David slides the edge of a fingernail under the edge of the wrapping paper to ease it open. “Oh, it’s—”

“It’s a poster,” Jamie says, “for the store!” She tugs on his wrist until he lowers the frame enough for her to see. “Look, I drew birds in the corners, because you like birds, and I did a rose like on the sign, for your name.”

“It’s—” It’s inexpert and unbalanced, clearly a kid’s work. In another life, David wouldn’t have looked twice at it.

And yet there’s something compelling about the artless lines, the subtle asymmetries, the friendly, welcoming feel to it. “It’s lovely, Jamie.” David crouches down to meet her eyes, rests his hand on her shoulder. “It is definitely the best birthday present I’ve received today.” Jamie flings herself into his arms and hugs him tight. His throat unaccountably tight, David pats her back and rests his head gently against hers.

“Oh!” Jamie pulls back suddenly, eyes wide. “And there’s a card!” Like a shot, she’s off to the back room again, leaving David to pull himself to his feet and blink hard.

“Happy birthday.” Patrick pulls David into a hug of his own. His arms are strong and solid in a way that David tries very hard not to notice. “And I’m sorry in advance about the card.”

The card is a glitter-encrusted monstrosity that sings a tinny version of _Happy Birthday_ when David opens it. It’s horrifying and he loves it.

“What else did you get?” Jamie asks as David is picking the glitter out of his sweater.

“Jamie,” Patrick says, warningly.

“We don’t really make a big deal out of birthdays.” David shrugs. “So your gift is _very_ appreciated.” He tilts his head. “Isn’t your birthday coming up soon?”

“July 14th!” Jamie beams. “It’s a national holiday in France, because they cut off the king’s head. I have a book about it.” 

“Jamie, hon, can you go read for a bit?” Patrick ruffles her hair. “David and I need to look over some orders.” Jamie nods and heads off to the back room. They’ve put a chair in there for her, right under the stained glass window where the light is best.

“Right, okay.” David nods. “Orders.” It doesn’t take long; they’ve had enough conversations about what is and isn’t selling that they’re already more or less decided. Salad tongs, yes: they’re portable and make great hostess gifts. Hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, no: they have most of the original batch left, although David thinks they’ll sell better once the weather gets warmer.

“So no big birthday plans?” Patrick adds the last order form to the stack and taps the whole pile against the counter to neaten the edges. “A low-key evening for the Rose family?”

“They, ah—” David glances past the stockroom curtain, but Jamie is absorbed in her book. “They forgot.”

“They—I’m sorry, they _what?_ ”

“Shh!” David takes a step away from the door, just in case. “They forgot, okay? It happens.” He rolls his eyes. “My mom has a concert, apparently, and it’s Alexis’ graduation ceremony, so.”

“Um, okay.” Patrick seems like he’s about to say more, then shuts his mouth. “So I’ll just send these orders, then, if you want to—” he gestures vaguely at the display of hair care products, which, yes, David did want to reorganize. David nods, and Patrick disappears into the little business office corner in the back. David hears him say something to Jamie on his way: Patrick’s voice mellow and calm, Jamie’s voice excited.

He’s just finished sorting the conditioners by scent and is trying to decide if he wants to do shampoos on the same shelf (easier to curate a coherent fragrance profile) or on the shelf below (visually more appealing) when Jamie pops up at his elbow.

“David, what’s the best kind of cake?”

“Excuse me?”

“My birthday is in two months,” she says, biting on her thumbnail. “And I want to have a really, really _good_ cake, and Dad says that you have good taste, so I thought you’d know what cake tastes best.” She’s so serious, all big eyes and wild hair. The furrow in her eyebrows is a perfect twin to the one that Patrick gets when they’re talking about budget overruns. David smiles without meaning to, charmed.

“Well, my favorite cake is chocolate,” he tells her. “Although the _best_ cake I ever had was a passionfruit-guava-carrot cake that I had in Paris at Anish Kapoor’s birthday.” Jamie wrinkles her nose. “I guess you had to be there,” David admits. “But, yeah, chocolate cake is my favorite.”

“Mine too! With Funfetti frosting!”

“That sounds like a winner, then,” David says, although Funfetti frosting is really only good when you’re stoned off your ass at 3 AM. “What else do you think you’ll do for your birthday?” It doesn’t hurt, somehow, hearing Jamie chatter about the friends she’s going to invite and the movies they’re going to watch, how she kind of wants to go to the water park but then what if it’s crowded or it rains. David doesn’t really have to say much, just lets her plans wash over him, asking a question now and then, letting her immerse him in her low-stakes choices.

They’ve finished with the haircare products and are making inroads on the moisturizers when Patrick interrupts them.

“Jamie, Mom just texted.” He lifts his phone and waves it. “She got done early and wants to know if you want to—” He pauses, raising his eyebrows in some sort of mysterious significance. “— _go to the library_ with her.”

“Yes!” Jamie leaps to her feet, setting the stool rocking wildly. David steadies it with one hand, quietly pleased at her enthusiasm. It’s great to see a kid so excited about reading, even if the plots of Jamie’s current choices are mind-bendingly pedestrian. She has time to expand her range, after all.

“I thought so.” Patrick smiles, fond and amused. “I’ll tell her yes. Can you get your stuff together?”

Jamie nods, eyes wide, and looks up at David. “Thanks, David,” she says, and gives him another hug, quick and fierce.

“Thank _you_ for the lovely gift,” David says. “I’ll have to find a good place to hang it.” 

“Oooh!” Jamie looks around the store. “I don’t know, maybe—”

“Jamie, your stuff?” 

“Right!” She hurries to get her bag. A few minutes later, the phone in Patrick’s hand chimes.

“Jamie, Mom’s here!” Jamie emerges from the back room like a rocket and is out the door with a backwards wave.

“Thanks for putting up with...all of that.” Patrick shakes his head ruefully. “She’s kind of intense about birthdays right now.”

“It’s not a problem,” David says. “I’m happy to provide my services as a tastemaker and event planning influencer.”

“Oh, is _that_ what you are?” Patrick’s eyes are gleaming. “Well, Mr. Influencer, I just got off the phone with Saugus Mills, and they say we can pick up the salad tongs on Wednesday any time after noon.” He flips his phone from hand to hand. “Do you want me to do the pickup?”

“Sure,” David says. “Oh, but I think Jenny Cardoza was going to drop off the herb blends that day?” He frowns. “Or was that Thursday?”

“No, you’re right, it’s Wednesday,” Patrick says. “Okay, so I’ll stay here to get the herbs, and you’ll do Saugus Mills?”

“You’re better at the herbs, is all,” David says. “All of those...cooking things.”

“Sounds good,” Patrick says, and then there’s a customer to deal with.

The day passes easily, peaceful silence with occasional conversation. Patrick doesn’t make David talk about his birthday any more, thank _God_ ; instead, they talk about Jamie, the store, their customers, their vendors. David gets the skincare products set up the way he wants them, Patrick does something incomprehensibly dull with a pile of receipts. Before long, they’re flipping the sign to CLOSED and ushering the last customer out the door.

“I can give you a ride, if you want,” Patrick says as David’s locking the door. “If you don’t mind me stopping by my place first.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Apparently Jamie forgot the book she’s reading.”

“That would be—lovely, thank you,” David says. It’s not as if he’s in a hurry to get back to the motel, although at least his family won’t be there. Plus, he’s never seen Patrick’s house, and he’s not too proud to admit that he’s curious.

“Actually, speaking of Jamie, I wanted to ask,” Patrick says once they’re on the road. “What’s your feeling on surprise parties?” David can’t hide his shudder, and Patrick laughs. “Really? I always wanted one as a kid, but Jamie doesn’t really seem to care.”

“Thereby showing excellent taste,” David informs him. “Surprise parties are tacky, and almost always thrown by well-intentioned people with very bad taste.”

“Noted,” Patrick says. “And I guess cake is also tacky?”

“Cake is delicious,” David says, “and always appropriate.”

“Good to know.” Patrick pulls into the driveway of a single-story bungalow, blue paint a little worn but still cheerful. “Okay, quick stop here, unless you’d like to come in and see the place?”

David fights a brief and violent battle with his better impulses that ends in him unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. “Sure,” he says in a nonchalant tone of voice. “Why not.”

“It’s kind of a mess, sorry.” Patrick unlocks the door. “And sorry about the rest of it, too.”

“Sorry about—” _what_ , David starts to say, but that’s when Jamie leaps out from behind a battered gray sofa shouting “SURPRISE!” at the top of her lungs.

“I—what?” David accepts Jamie’s hug in a daze, Patrick’s laughter echoing in his ears. It’s not just Patrick, either: Stevie is smirking at him from a chair at the dining room table. 

“You!” It comes out a little shrieky, but David absolutely doesn’t care. He’s in a state of _shock_ , here. “What are you doing here?” He looks down at Jamie, still clinging to his waist. “What _is_ this?”

Jamie giggles. “It’s a surprise party,” she says. “Are you surprised? You looked _really_ surprised.”

“Jamie, babe, let David breathe.” Rachel is standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and shaking her head. “I swear, you’d think she was raised by wolves.”

“Thanks for the assist, Rach.” Patrick brushes past David to give her a hug. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “Trust me.” She swats Patrick on the shoulder, then turns back to David. “Happy birthday, David,” she says. “Hope you like pizza, because that’s what we’re eating.”

“...I love pizza,” David says weakly, and lets himself be pushed into a chair at the table. There are balloons tied to the back.

“Okay, Jamie, you’re on slice delivery duty,” Patrick says, and the Brewers disappear into the kitchen _en masse_ , leaving David to stare at Stevie from across the table. She smiles at him, that perfect Stevie smile that’s always a little more sincere than she means it to be. David reaches out to grab her hand.

“Stevie, _what the fuck_ ,” he whispers. “Please, just—what the _fuck_.”

“So _I_ got a really interesting text today,” Stevie says with conspicuous sangfroid. She looks down at her phone. “Let’s see—oh, here we go. _Dear Stevie,_ ” she reads in a low voice. “ _This is Patrick Brewer. Apparently David’s family forgot about his birthday_ —sorry about that, by the way— _so we’re throwing him a surprise party tonight. I think he’d really like it if you could be there._ ” She sets the phone down and looks at David, propping her head on one hand. “So _that_ was certainly something.”

“I—” David shakes his head. “When did this even happen?” He grabs the phone out of Stevie’s hand before she can answer, thumbs in her passcode and pulls up the message app. “Eleven twenty-six?” He only got to work at 10:45, and it took them at least forty minutes to settle all of the ordering stuff, which means that Patrick must have texted Stevie—

“Pizza!” Jamie reappears carrying two paper plates. “One sausage and mushroom—” Stevie reaches out to take the plate with one hand and grabs her phone back with the other, “—and one with canadian bacon, pineapple, and green peppers.” David takes the plate, stunned silent.

“Did we get that right?” Rachel slides into the seat next to Stevie, her own plate of pizza in front of her. “Patrick said that was what you’d want, but I wasn’t sure.”

“I—yes,” David manages. “Yes, that’s correct.” He lifts a corner of the pizza, which is hot and gooey and clearly homemade. “This smells amazing.”

Rachel shrugs. “It’s literally the only thing I can cook competently, but fortunately pizza is pretty flexible.” She takes a bite of her own slice, which is loaded with mushrooms and sausage. “Plus, you’ve got grains, dairy, protein, vegetables. It’s a balanced dinner!”

“Yeah, sure, ” Patrick says, “if you’re a college student.” He drops into the chair next to David, then turns to help Jamie scoot her chair up to the table. “Jamie, don’t listen to her.” Jamie, tucking into her pizza with gleeful abandon, doesn’t appear to be listening to anybody.

“This is—” David can’t find the words, winds up gesturing helplessly at the four of them, chewing on their pizza and watching him with tolerant smiles. “Thank you so much.” 

“Your pizza’s going to get cold,” Stevie tells him, which is a fair point. David takes a bite, then another. It’s delicious.

Afterwards, there’s cake: chocolate topped with funfetti icing and an only slightly lopsided HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

“It’s from a box,” Rachel says, as Patrick cuts into the cake under Jamie’s supervision. “I’ll do a lot of things for love, but I won’t make a cake from scratch.”

“It’s the _good_ box mix, though,” Jamie adds. “And we added pudding!” She looks at David and beams, handing him a slice. “You have to take the first bite, because it’s your birthday!”

“Oh, well, in that case.” The funfetti is thick and cloying, but the cake itself is rich and delicious. “Mmm!”

“Score one for the box mixes!” Rachel pumps her fist in triumph. 

“It’s _really_ good,” Stevie says around her own slice. “Seriously, I’ve made a lot of box mix cakes, and I’ve never had one this good.”

“It’s the pudding,” Jamie says sagely, then turns abruptly to Patrick. “Dad! Your present!”

“Oh, um—”

“Never mind, I’ll go get it!” She pushes back from the table with a loud scrape and vanishes into the next room. There’s a muffled thud, and Patrick winces. 

“Jamie?”

“Got it!” She shoves a gift bag into David’s hands and climbs back into her chair. “Open it, David!”

“It’s nothing, really,” Patrick says. “You don’t have to—”

“Open it, open it,” Jamie chants, joined by Stevie and Rachel. David pulls tissue paper out of the bag and reveals—

“What is it?” Stevie leans in to look at the frame in David’s hands.

“It’s, um. The receipt,” Patrick says. “From our first sale at the store.” He smiles awkwardly. “Like I said, it’s nothing, just—”

“This is _not_ nothing.” David runs his thumb over the frame. “So thank you.”

“Do you like the frame?” Jamie makes a face. “I wanted to get one with sparkles, but Dad said you’d like this one better.”

“It’s a very nice frame,” David says, and actually means it. It’s pale wood, simple and elegant and perfectly matched to the store’s color story. “Thank you, Patrick,” he says again. “This is—thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Patrick says. There’s a small, sweet smile on his face, and his gaze is like a searchlight on David’s skin.

“I did _not_ get you a present,” Stevie says without a hint of apology in her voice. David honestly doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss her or throttle her for breaking that moment. “And actually I need to get back to the motel pretty soon.” She stands up, grabbing her bag. “Thanks so much for dinner, and for setting this up.” She nods at Patrick and Rachel in turn. “David, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I can give you a ride, if you want,” Rachel says as David is still nodding to Stevie. 

“Oh, uh.” Stevie fidgets with the strap of her bag. “That’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to—”

“It’s no problem.” Rachel stands as well. “I need to go and check on a couple of things at the office.” She turns to Jamie. “What do you think, bug? Come to the office with me or stay here with Dad?”

Jamie tilts her head in consideration, then turns to Patrick. “If I stay, can we play Scrabble?”

“Jamie, hon, it’s David’s birthday, remember?” Patrick looks at David. “And not everybody likes Scrabble as much as you do.”

“Um, excuse you, I _love_ Scrabble,” David says, and starts stacking plates to clear the table. “Bring it on.”

Forty-five minutes and a measly seventy-two points later, David is re-evaluating his life choices. Jamie has a shockingly good vocabulary—seriously, since when does a nine-year old even know the word QUOTA?—and Patrick turns out to be an absolute _shark_ at using the double- and triple- score squares. David is getting _stomped_.

It’s the best party he’s been to in years.

“Sorry,” Patrick says while Jamie’s in the bathroom. “She’s intense about Scrabble.”

“Yes.” David looks at the board, where Patrick has just spelled JOUST for 56 points and a definitive win. “Yes, I can definitely see that _Jamie_ is intense about Scrabble.”

“It’s all about strategy, David,” Patrick tells him, biting back a grin. David resists the urge to flip him off.

“Dad’s really good at Scrabble,” Jamie says around a yawn. She leans heavily against Patrick’s side.

“You look tired, kiddo.” Patrick glances at his watch. “It’s almost your bedtime, huh?”

“But we only played one game!”

“I know, babe, but we should give David a ride home,” Patrick tells her. “And maybe he’ll come for a rematch some time?”

“I would be honored,” David says. “Once I’ve had the chance to swallow a few dictionaries, that is.”

Jamie chatters for the first ten minutes of the drive, then falls silent in the middle of a story about her gym class. When David twists in his seat to look, she’s completely asleep, face pressed against the window, mouth open.

“She out?” David nods. “Something about the car does that, I don’t know.” He shakes his head, laughing quietly. “When she was teething, I used to take her out and just drive laps around the neighborhood. It was the only way to get her to sleep.”

“Alexis liked opera,” David says. “So on the whole, a nice evening drive sounds great.”

“Fair enough.” It’s not that far to the motel, and before long Patrick is pulling into a spot in front of room 7 and killing the engine.

“Well, that was a very fun night.” David turns to face Patrick.

“I’m really glad I decided to invest in your business, David,” he says gently.

“That is...a really lovely thing to say.” David can feel his face doing something deeply unfortunate, something entirely too open and honest for 8:30 pm in a motel parking lot.

“And I’m so glad you did, Patrick, because you’ve really helped to turn it into the success that it is,” Patrick adds, his smile growing.

“Mm! A bold claim.” David has to bite down on his cheek to keep from laughing, wary of waking Jamie in the backseat. Across from him, he can see the same thought in Patrick’s eyes. They sit there like that for a long moment, amusement fizzing in the air between them and fading gently into something warm and soft and terrifying.

“Thank you,” David says eventually, to keep from saying anything else.

“For what?” Patrick’s voice is soft.

“For making this happen.” David takes a deep breath. “It’s been...a really long time since I’ve enjoyed my birthday, so.” He rubs his hands along his thighs. “Thanks.”

“It was my pleasure,” Patrick says. “Although, I have to ask—” He hesitates, and David tilts his head, waiting. “Do you still think surprise parties are tacky?”

“Um, obviously,” David says, “but also, maybe, occasionally, they can be—” David pauses, reveling in the expectant grin that Patrick gives him. “—acceptable.” He undoes his seatbelt and gets out of the car to the sound of Patrick’s laughter, soft and gentle and knowing.

“Good night, David.” David turns around, braces his arms on the open window and pokes his head just inside the car.

“Good night, Patrick.”

***

“—and then?”

“And then nothing!” David drops back on the bed and drags his hands over his face. “I went back inside! My parents were there! They had a cake!”

“Wait, _another_ cake?” Stevie is looking very judgmental. “And you didn’t share?”

“It’s in the fridge, help yourself.” David presses his hands against his eyelids until his vision goes sparkly. “Fuck, I just. I don’t _know_.”

“So, okay, let’s recap,” Stevie says from inside the mini-fridge. “Patrick found out that your family forgot about your birthday, got his daughter to figure out what kind of cake you like best, and got his _ex-wife_ to make you that cake—which was delicious, by the way.”

“Ugh,” David groans.

“ _Then_ ,” Stevie continues, her voice muffled around a mouthful of cake, “he lured you to a surprise party with your best friend, at which party he gave you an _appallingly_ adorable gift.” David rolls over onto his stomach and moans directly into the bedspread, which dips slightly as Stevie sits down next to his shoulder. “And then you played Scrabble together, and he drove you home, and you had a _moment_ in the car. Am I getting everything?”

“Do you have a point, or are you just enjoying yourself?” 

“David.” Stevie rests a hand on his cheek, which is startling enough that David opens his eyes. She’s biting her lip, her gaze steady and serious. “David. He is _way into you._ ”

“Right, but, like—” David shakes his head, dislodging Stevie’s hand. “That’s _one_ interpretation of things, but isn’t it also possible that he’s just, I don’t know, nice?” He sits up and runs his hands through his hair. His left hand comes away sticky, and he glares at Stevie. “Also, did you just get frosting in my hair?”

“Sorry.” Stevie leans back to the nightstand and grabs a napkin. “I was trying to be supportive but I forgot about my fork.”

“You’re the worst,” David tells her, but he lets her dab at his hair.

“Look, you called me over here for an early-morning crisis consultation,” Stevie says. “You get what you get.” She grabs his chin and tilts his head to the side, frowning, then stands up. “And now I have to go clean the rooms. If you want me to keep listening, you’re going to have to come help.”

“I hate you,” David informs her, but he lets her pull him out of bed. “Also, I get to push the cart, and I’m not touching anything that’s touched another person’s bare skin.”

“Mmm, but what if it was _Patrick’s_ bare skin,” Stevie says. David glares and smacks her on the arm. Stevie’s the worst, but she’s also kind of the best. Not for the first time, David is glad he has her, glad that if he has to be here, he’s here with her. If he has Stevie, everything feels a little more manageable, a little bit less overwhelmingly awful.

That’s when they find the dead body in room 4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a little extra time and didn't want to do actual work, so you get chapter two (now with 74% fewer semicolons!) a little early.


	3. Chapter 3

The whole dead body thing would be a complete shitshow even in a normal town with normal motel guests. Given the addition of David’s parents, Roland Schitt, and the general level of nonsense that Schitt’s Creek always manages to bring to any given situation, it’s bound to be a nightmare. David feels bad for Stevie, he really does. 

...but not bad enough to want to hang around. David stays with Stevie while she tells his parents, then heads for the store.

Patrick is already there when David comes in, neatening up the display next to the counter.

“David, hey.” His smile is like a sunbeam, like a spring breeze, like a perfect piece of toast. “You’re in early. No wild birthday nights?”

“Funny you should say that.” David’s trying for bright and breezy, but he can already tell he’s missing it by a mile, _fuck_. “Um, so remember a few weeks ago, with the lice thing?” He spent the entire walk to the store trying to figure out a non-creepy way to say this and couldn’t find one. All he can do is take a deep breath and spit it out. “And you—very generously, I should add, I don’t think I said that at the time—offered to let me stay at your place?”

Patrick frowns, which, no, _not_ the correct reaction. David bites back his cringe and keeps going. “So I was thinking it might be fun if I took you up on that offer? Like, maybe tonight, specifically?”

“I...David, is everything okay?” And now Patrick looks worried, which, ugh, _also_ not the reaction David wants him to be having.

It’s very sweet, admittedly, but that’s not the point.

“No, yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just that there’s some—” David makes a gesture that hopefully skews more _annoying construction work_ than _decaying corpse_ “—there’s some _things_ happening at the motel, and I’d really like to—”

“ _Ring a ding_!” And of course it’s his mother, because the addition of Moira Rose is _exactly_ what this situation needs.

“Hey, Mrs. Rose.” Patrick grabs the cardboard box from the floor. “Just taking this to the back. David, we’ll talk about this later?”

“Yeah, no, it’s just some crossed—” David says, but Patrick is already out of the room. “—wires. May I help you?” 

“It’s startlingly quiet in here, David.” Moira glances around the store. “Is that a good sign?” David ignores her; she didn’t come downtown today to snipe at him about the store.

“I thought you were booked up all day, and that’s why you couldn’t help Dad with the dead bo—” David glances over his shoulder, hesitating. “—with the _thing_ at the motel.”

“I _am_ booked up, David.” She leans elegantly against the counter. “You should see my schedule; I’m positively bedeviled with meetings, et cetera.”

“Okay, _what_ are you doing here?” And now Patrick is back, unloading a box of hand creams onto the table. David has a sudden wild impulse to stand between the two of them, to shield Patrick from his mother’s considering gaze.

“You know what I’d love? A tea,” she says, because she’s the worst.

“We don’t sell tea,” David hisses.

“You know, I was going to make a run to the cafe.” Patrick glances between the two of them. “I could get you a tea, if you want.”

“No,” David says, “No, that’s not necessary—”

“How serendipitous,” his mother says. “Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s Patrick,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling. “Anything else?”

“Nothing else for me, thank you, just the scone.”

“You mean the tea?” There’s no point in engaging with Moira when she’s like this—there’s no point ever, really—and David wishes he could tell Patrick that, could somehow beam the knowledge into Patrick’s well-organized mind and make him understand that any attempt at conversation with Moira Rose is doomed to frustrating, circular failure. _Just leave_ , he wants to tell Patrick. _Just leave now, before she sucks you in any further._

He can’t, though. Instead, he listens in horrified amazement as his mother says, “Why not? Thank you!” and waves her hand, dismissing Patrick from the store, from _their_ store, the store they own together.

God, she’s the _worst._

“Um, I was in the middle of a pretty important conversation, there,” David says, once they’re alone again. “So can you just—” He gestures at his mother, now fully absorbed in reading the packaging on the cuticle cream.

“I’m sorry, David,” she says, “I had nowhere else to turn.” It’s not, historically, a phrase that has signalled good things in David’s life. “It’s probably nothing,” she adds, “but I think I’ve killed a man.”

So _that’s_ great.

And of course Patrick is just as efficient as he ever is, can’t choose _just this once_ to take his sweet time at the cafe, maybe chat with Twyla, give David time to figure out what his mother’s deal is and get her the hell out of the store. No, Patrick is back in what feels like no time at all, long before David has managed to get anything like a coherent story out of his mother.

Patrick does get David his coffee, though, which is—it’s nothing, really. It’s not a big deal, just a nice moment in an extremely frustrating day.

“Thank you,” David says. And maybe David’s voice is too soft, too _fond_ for someone who’s just thanking his business partner, but that doesn’t matter. Maybe David has to close his eyes for a split second, memorizing the feeling of their fingers brushing together, the calm, sure pressure of Patrick’s hands around his as he hands over the coffee. It doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter if David has a moment where he wonders what things might be like, if he were—if they could—

It doesn’t matter. David’s being professional, and anyway, he has his mother to deal with.

Patrick disappears into the back room, which is probably for the best. They have a good working relationship so far, balanced and comfortable. David can’t imagine that anything his mother says in the next half hour is going to help that.

With that in mind, David tries to keep his voice down, but, well. His mother has never exactly brought out the best in him. It’s really not surprising that their conversation gets a bit...heated.

Which turns out to be a good thing, actually, since Patrick chimes in with legal information—why does he know this? is this something that people who didn’t grow up in mansions just _know?_ —that has Moira swanning off and David sighing heavily in relief. Balance.

“So,” Patrick says eventually. “Your whole... _thing_ , this morning, that was because of—”

“Because of the dead body, yes,” David says. “Sorry, I was trying not to make it weird, but then…” He shrugs. 

“To be fair,” Patrick says, “I don’t know that there’s a normal way to say, _there’s a dead body at the motel, can I stay at your place?_ Which you can,” he adds. “Obviously you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” David says. “Seriously, you have no idea, this is—thank you,” he says again, helpless.

“No problem. Jamie will be thrilled.” Patrick pauses, biting his lip. “Although, ah, can we—”

“Not tell her about the body?” David rolls his eyes. “Because I was really hoping to traumatize your daughter today.”

“Actually, I’m more worried about her wanting to go over to the motel and see.” Patrick winces. “They did a unit on Ancient Egypt last month and I think she’s read every book the library has about mummification.”

“Okay, well, _that’s_ horrifying,” David says, then immediately realizes how harsh that sounds and tries to walk it back. “I mean, I’m glad she’s showing, um. Intellectual curiosity?”

“No, it’s pretty horrifying,” Patrick says, grimacing. “Those books have a _lot_ of pictures.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, you’re welcome to stay with us, it’s no problem at all.”

The rest of the day is quiet enough, plenty of customers but never a big rush. Everything feels unhurried and easy, peaceful, the calm of the store reasserting itself after the chaos of the morning. 

Patrick goes to get Jamie from school around 3:30. He must tell her that David’s spending the night, because she races into the store and flings herself at David’s waist, hugging him tightly.

“David!” She’s trying to jump up and down without releasing her grip, with predictable results. David has to hold his arms up to keep from bashing his elbow against her head. “David, you’re coming to our house again tonight!”

“I am,” David says, “if that’s okay with you?”

“Tonight is _lasagne night,_ ” Jamie informs him, rolling right past his question like it doesn’t even deserve a response. “And then we can play—”

“No more Scrabble, bug.” Patrick is leaning against the doorframe, smiling at her. “Let’s give David some time to recover.”

Jamie pouts, but then perks up. “Can we play Uno?”

“Sure,” David says when Patrick glances at him. “Uno and lasagne. Sounds delightful.”

***

“‘Number cards are scored as they are marked,’” Patrick reads, “‘while the two wild cards accrue fifty points each and the four 'action' cards count for twenty each’.” He turns the phone so that David can see it. “First person to get five hundred points loses.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” David says, “the fact that you have that page bookmarked on your phone, or the fact that I’ve apparently been playing Uno wrong for my entire life.”

“Mom doesn’t like to count the points either,” Jamie informs him. “But it’s _in the rules_.” She holds up the remains of his hand. “Also, you have forty-three points.” She writes the number on the pad of paper at her elbow.

“And I have how many, again?” Patrick says, like he can’t see the clearly printed _16_ in his own column.

“More points than your daughter.” David braces his elbows on the table and frowns. “Okay, come on, round two.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick takes the cards from Jamie and starts shuffling them back into the deck. “We can play something else, if this is too much for you.”

“Oh, it’s not too much for me,” David says. “Unless you’re scared that I’ll crush you now that I know the actual rules.”

“We’ll see about that,” Patrick says, but he rolls up his sleeves and deals the cards.

It’s tough going, but David fights his way back to second place. It’s a respectable showing, he thinks, given the frankly revolting amount of _math_ that turns out to be involved in Uno. Jamie is magnanimous in her victory, and only circles her final score twice.

“Okay, kiddo, time for bed,” Patrick says. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Daaaad,” Jamie whines, but she slots the cards back into their box and stands up. “Thanks for playing Uno with us, David,” she says, wrapping her arms around David’s shoulders. “You’ll get better at the math once you’ve played a few more times, I bet.”

“Well, I’ll just have to come back, then.” David hugs her back, tilting his head to keep her hair out of his mouth. “Thank you for inviting me,” he adds, catching Patrick’s eye over her head. “It was very kind of you.”

“We’re happy to have you,” Patrick says. “Jamie, come on, bedtime.”

“But Dad.” Jamie leans back to look at Patrick without letting go of David’s shoulders, tugging David into an awkward side bend. “Where’s David going to sleep?” When Patrick doesn’t respond right away, she turns to David. “You’re too tall for my bed, but you could sleep in Dad’s bed. It’s really big,” she informs him.

“Is it.” David absolutely does not make eye contact with Patrick. Not happening. _Nope._

“We’ll figure it out, Jamie,” Patrick says. “Go brush your teeth and I’ll come tuck you in.”

“And read?” Patrick hesitates, and Jamie releases David to cross her arms over her chest mulishly. “ _One_ chapter, please?”

“One chapter, okay,” Patrick says. “ _If_ you brush your teeth right now.” Jamie’s gone before he finishes the sentence, scampering up the stairs. Patrick watches her go, smiling.

“What, uh.” David’s throat is dry and scratchy. “What are you reading?”

“ _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ ,” Patrick says. “I read it with my mom, when I was a kid.” He pauses, then adds, “We didn’t—I mean, there’s not a guest room, but—”

“I’ll take the couch.” David eyes it. “It’ll be fine.” It won’t have a dead body anywhere in the vicinity, at least.

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening,” Patrick informs him. “We are way too busy at the store for you to mess up your back sleeping on that thing.” He nods firmly. “You’ll take my bed and I’ll blow up the air mattress in the living room.” 

“Um, _no._ ”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, David. I’ll put clean sheets on for you.”

“I—no!” Despite what Stevie likes to say, David’s not _completely_ devoid of human compassion. “This is your house! I’m not kicking you out of your bed, that’s ridiculous.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, “so you _want_ to get up at 6:30 with Jamie?” David opens his mouth to start formulating a convincing lie, but Patrick cuts him off, shaking his head. “You’re a guest, David,” he says. “Take my bed.”

“I’m only a guest because I bullied you into inviting me over,” David tries, but Patrick’s got a stubborn gleam in his eyes and David’s just not that strong. “Fine, okay, I’ll take your bed, but I’ll do the sheets.” Patrick raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth, but whatever deeply unfair comment on David’s life skills he’s about to make is cut off by Jamie.

“Daaaaaaad,” she calls down the stairs. “Dad, I brushed my teeth, I’ve got the book, come _on_.”

“Be right there, bug,” Patrick calls back, then turns to David. “Sheets are in the linen closet, in the bathroom. I’ll come and give you a hand in a minute.”

“That _won’t_ be necessary,” David says, and pretends not to hear Patrick laughing at him.

***

David _does_ know how to make a bed, excuse you very much, and so what if Stevie was the one who taught him? You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she’s an excellent housekeeper when she wants to be, and she takes the motel seriously.

David isn’t quite up to her standards, but he gets Patrick’s bed stripped and made back up in plenty of time. There’s a half-full hamper next to the door, so he tucks the old sheets into it, being sure not to look at any of the laundry already in there. What does he even think he’s going to see? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself, because he’s _not looking_.

Once the bed is made, though, there’s not much else to do but look, unless he goes back out to listen to Patrick read Jamie her bedtime story. Which—no, David’s definitely not doing that.

So. Patrick Brewer’s bedroom. White walls, gray linens, dark wood furniture: not hardwood, but a decent approximation. Nothing hanging on the walls, but there’s a framed black-and-white print leaning in the corner, waiting for someone with a hammer to come and put it in its place. A scattering of spare change on the top of the dresser, a half-empty glass of water, an unmatched black sock. A biography of Yvon Chouinard on the nightstand, a pair of eyeglasses resting next to it.

David lets himself contemplate that mental image for a moment: Patrick in this bed, tucked up under this responsible gray blanket, reading this serious book with these fucking reading glasses. He probably doesn’t have proper pajamas, David thinks despairingly, just a ragged old t-shirt from some sort of sports thing and a pair of ugly boxers. The Patrick in David’s imagination turns a page and reaches out with one hand to take a sip from the water glass. He scratches idly at the side of his neck, golden and peaceful and quiet in the lamp light.

David takes a deep breath and blinks twice, hard, chasing the scene from his mind’s eye. He’s not doing this. He’s not going to make this weird. Patrick is his friend, against the odds and against most of David’s lived experience. David cannot, _cannot_ fuck this up.

He steps back into the hallway and takes a deep breath, eyes closed.

“ _The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts broke over the bridge of the frigate,_ ” Patrick reads, “ _rushing like a torrent from stem to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars._ ” His voice is low and tense, drawing David into the story. “ _A fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time to stop myself—_ ” a long pause, “ _—I fell into the sea._ ”

Fortunately, the noise David makes is covered by Jamie’s imperious, “and then?”

“That’s the end of the chapter, sweetheart,” Patrick says. There’s the sound of a book flipping shut. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens next.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s going to _drown_.” David can almost see the expression on Jamie’s face: her furrowed eyebrows, her thoughtful pout. “There’s too many chapters left for the narrator to drown.” Patrick says nothing, and Jamie’s voice goes uncertain. “Dad, he doesn’t drown, does he?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Patrick says. David can hear the smile in his voice. “Good night, Jamie.” David has just enough warning to look away from the door before Patrick comes through, shutting it gently behind him.

“Oh,” David says, like a person who definitely wasn’t listening to his business partner read his daughter a science fiction classic as a bedtime story. “I just finished the sheets.” 

“Oh, great.” Patrick glances over David’s shoulder, like he’s going to— 

“Excuse me, what are you doing? Are you going to check my work?” David’s trying to be quiet, even though there’s no way Jamie is asleep yet, but it softens the edges on his outrage, makes it come out fond and familiar.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick says, laughing, and tilts his head towards the stairs. David follows him down to the living room, which has gained a large gray bag at some point in the last half hour. “I think it’s just ingrained at this point,” Patrick says at a normal volume. The gray bag turns out to contain a repulsive tangle of rubber and cords that must be the air mattress; David leaves Patrick to unfold it and turns to move the coffee table out of the way. “Jamie’s pretty good about keeping her room clean,” Patrick continues, “but she’s terrible about making her bed. If I don’t check, she’ll just throw a quilt over the whole mess and call it done.” 

“Oh, so you weren’t specifically doubting _my_ bed-making skills,” David says, as Patrick bends down to plug the air mattress in. “You were just comparing me, mentally, with your nine year old daughter.”

“Well, she’s very mature for her age,” Patrick says, and flicks the switch on the pump before David can formulate a response. There’s no point in trying to talk over the sound, so David just stands there, watching Patrick crouch next to the air mattress, watching the air mattress inflate in stages. Patrick keeps the air running long after David would have cut it off, and when he does, the absence of noise is deafening.

“Sorry,” Patrick says into the silence, straightening up. “You were saying?”

“...I don’t remember,” David admits. “I was too distracted by your—contraption.” He gestures at the air mattress, which takes up most of the floorspace in the living room despite only being—god, is it a twin? Is Patrick honestly going to sleep on a twin bed tonight? Voluntarily?

“Yeah, the pump is pretty loud, sorry,” Patrick says, completely immune to David’s inner turmoil. “Help me with the sheets?”

It’s not hard to put the sheets on, even if the air mattress does squish alarmingly under David’s hands. In almost no time at all, David is giving a final pat to the pillow and standing up, gesturing to the bed with a flourish.

“Thank you, David,” Patrick says, which is just completely incorrect.

“Um, thank _you_ ,” David says. “I’m the one who’s imposing, remember?”

Patrick shrugs. 

“You’d do the same for me,” he says, which—

David would, is the thing. David would chase Alexis out of the room, give up the beds for Patrick and Jamie, sleep on a fucking air mattress all night. He _would_. David doesn’t think he’s ever had someone in his life he’d do that for, someone _worth_ doing that for, but he does, and he would.

“The dead body should be gone by tomorrow,” he says, instead of saying...any of that. “So I’ll be out of your way.”

“Sounds good,” Patrick says. “Good night, David.”

“Good night, Patrick,” David says, and goes back upstairs before he can say anything more.

***

David wakes up in a comfortable bed, warm and relaxed, and takes a deep breath without opening his eyes. He’s not at the motel, that much is for sure. The light is all wrong, for one thing, and he can’t hear the highway or the clank of the water heater. Instead of the usual motel stench— _eau de mold_ mixed with the top notes of Alexis’ perfume—David smells an unexpectedly appealing blend of Old Spice and laundry detergent. 

David rolls over, eyes still closed, and lets his hips rock gently against the mattress. He’s not particularly horny, but over the past two years he’s learned to appreciate privacy and a comfortable bed when he has them.

Which he does today, because—because—

Because he’s at Patrick’s house, in Patrick’s _bed_. David flops back over onto his back and opens his eyes to confirm what his memory is telling him. David is in Patrick’s bedroom, because Patrick is a generous human being who would never in a million years think that David was about two brain cells away from jerking off in this lovely soft bed.

It would be so easy, is the thing. David is always a little horny first thing in the morning, before reality sets in. He wouldn’t need much, just a hand around his dick, slick and tight and uncomplicated. Slow and lazy to start, just a hint of a twist around the head, until he couldn’t keep his hips still, had to fuck up into his fist, had to bite his lip to keep himself quiet, until he—

Rather than let himself think about it any more, David gets up and grabs his overnight bag. He doesn’t have everything with him, of course; there’s not enough room, and Alexis was being ludicrously possessive over the La Mer eye serum. Still, that’s no reason to neglect his skincare routine entirely.

Showered, exfoliated, moisturized, and dressed, David feels slightly more like the person he aspires to be and slightly less like some sort of cave-dwelling lust monster. It’s 9:42, and he really should be getting to the store, so he packs his bag back up and heads downstairs. About to put on his shoes, he detours to the kitchen with the vague thought of finding some leftover lasagne.

Instead, he finds a plate covered with tin foil sitting on the kitchen table, a travel mug next to it. There’s a piece of paper folded in two on top, his name in Jamie’s enthusiastic print. David picks the note up and unfolds it with tentative hands.

 _Hope you slept well,_ it says, the handwriting Patrick’s now. _We saved you some waffles: there’s butter and jam in the fridge and syrup in the first cupboard to the left over the sink. The coffee is instant—hope you survive the experience_. David picks up the mug and takes a sip, wincing, but it’s not bad: sweet and milky, with a hint of cinnamon. _Shut the door on your way out, text me if you need anything. See you at the store!_ It’s signed by both of them, Jamie’s name twice the size of Patrick’s. 

David closes the note and folds it carefully in half, tucking it gently into the pocket of his jeans, then sits down at the table. When he pulls back the tinfoil, he finds two beautiful waffles, just crisp enough, still warm when tests them with the back of his fingers.

They’re delicious, of course. Fuck.

*** 

It’s not really awkward at the store, mostly because David spends the entire walk over thinking aggressively non-sexual thoughts.

“Morning, David,” Patrick says. “Was the bed okay?”

“I’m going to go unpack the shipment of wooden bowls,” David says, totally normally, and flees into the stockroom. 

The wooden bowls are hand-carved by a pair of elderly lesbians in Mount Cannon, and they’ve sold amazingly well; this is the second time they’ve had to re-order. They’re packed in a box of wood shavings, so David has to open the box, remove each bowl, wipe it down—first with a damp cloth, to catch the sawdust, and then with a dry one—and set it on the table before he can even start to think about display design. The bowls are pleasingly heavy, glossy and smooth with subtle patterns worked around the rim. David loses a few hours to the deliberate process of unpacking, cleaning, and sorting them.

He’s just emptied the last box when he hears the bell ring and a familiar voice say, “Hey, Patrick.” It’s Stevie, fuck, thank _God_. David stands up in a rush and bashes his shin against the leg of the table, setting the bowls wobbling ominously. When he stops swearing, it’s just in time to hear Stevie say, “—talk to David, actually? It’s, ah. It’s a wine question.”

“He’s in the back room,” Patrick says. “But if you’re looking for wine, we just got a nice pinot noir from the people over at Sawyer’s Point.”

“It’s, ah.” David doesn’t have to see Stevie’s face to know she’s grimacing. “It’s really more of a, uh. A white wine question.”

“They do a pinot grigio too,” Patrick offers. “I like it better, personally.”

“Yeah, um, no offense, but I kind of need to talk to David about this,” Stevie says, which is actually really unfair. Patrick doesn’t have the _most_ refined palate, but he’s learning. 

Still, David can recognize a cue when he hears one. He gives the bowls one last stabilizing pat, then pushes the curtain aside and steps out into the store.

“Patrick’s right,” he tells Stevie. “The pinot noir is good, but the pinot grigio is better.”

Patrick shoots David a grin, quick and secretive. “There’s the one from Regis Hill, too,” he says. “I think we still have a few bottles? The, uh.” He gestures vaguely. “With the blue label?”

“The chablis, right,” David says. “We should have a bottle or two left.” He’s pretty sure there are actually three bottles left, but he was maybe hoping to take one or two of them home with him someday soon; it’s a really good wine.

“It’s really good,” Patrick says. “I bought a bottle myself.” He raises an eyebrow at David. “And paid for it, which is what you do when you take something from a store.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Stevie says, cutting off David’s response. “But what if you were a person who, ah. Who hadn’t, historically, been interested in white wine.” Before David can bring up the bottle of chardonnay they demolished together last week, she’s continuing. “And maybe you—maybe _this person_ had, um, a bottle of red wine, um, in the house already? And they—and that bottle was nice, but maybe not—” She swallows hard. “Maybe not, ultimately, what you were really looking for?”

David shuts his mouth and looks at Stevie, really _looks_ at her. She’s dressed normally enough, for Stevie, which is to say she’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt and her hair looks like she’s recently been dragged backwards through a bush. Her face is drawn, though, and she’s staring at David, raising her eyebrows like he’s missing something obvious, which—

Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” David says. “So we’re not so much talking about white wine as we’re talking about—” he pauses, raising his eyebrows, “ _—white wine_.” Stevie nods, biting her lip. “Oh,” David says again. “ _Oh_.”

“And I’m getting the sense,” Patrick says, “that this conversation isn’t really about wine at all.” They both turn to look at him, and he raises his hands, cutting them off. “I’m going to go take my break, so you two can talk this out.” He grabs his wallet from under the register and ducks around the counter, then stops at the door. “But, you know, there’s nothing wrong with trying something new,” he says. “So long if you’re honest with yourself about what you’re drinking and why.” He pauses. “And so long as you don’t break any bottles.”

“I—thanks?” Stevie says, but Patrick is already out the door. She turns to David, eyes wide, and says, “Fuck, now I actually want wine.”

“Ugh, me too,” David says. “Unfortunately, as a responsible business owner and a pillar of the community, I will have to abstain.” He ducks back into the stock room and grabs one of the bottles of the chablis from the cooler. “Fortunately for _you_ , I’m also an amazing friend,” he tells her, putting the bottle on the counter and digging a corkscrew out of the junk drawer. “That’s fifteen ninety-five,” he adds.

“I kissed Rachel,” Stevie replies. She opens the wine with brisk, economical movements, then drops the cork on the counter and takes a long drink.

“...Rachel.” David stares at her. “Like, _Rachel_ -Rachel?” Stevie swallows and nods. “ _Patrick’s_ Rachel?”

“She’s her own Rachel.” Stevie takes another swig of the wine. “This is really good, by the way.”

“I’ll invoice you,” David says, rolling his eyes. “So, ah, excuse me for prying, but how the fuck did _this_ happen?”

“I don’t know,” Stevie says, anguished. “I mean, we were hanging out at her house last night, and we had some wine—”

“White or red?”

“Fuck you.” She takes another swallow of wine. “And she was talking about, I don’t know, how it sucks to date when you’re a parent, because either people are super weird about the kid or they’re really into it, which is also super weird.” She looks down at the bottle, picking at the label with her thumbnail. “And I was being, you know, sympathetic, even though I totally _don’t_ know what that’s like, and then…”

“And then?”

Stevie shrugs. “And then she kissed me.” She rubs her thumb along the neck of the bottle, tracing patterns in the condensation. 

David gives her a minute, but she just stares at the bottle like it contains the secrets of the universe instead of a midrange dry white wine.

“And?” Stevie looks up, startled, and David rolls his eyes. “And how _was_ it?” Stevie’s already pink from the wine, but she flushes darker and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Well?” 

“...it was good,” she says, biting her lip.

“Okay, but, like,” David frowns. “Was it good, or was it _good?_ ”

“I don’t know, David,” she snaps. “It was _good_ , what do you want?” She takes a drink of the wine. “It was _really_ good, and now I’m all—” She sighs. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” David says, and waits until she makes eye contact to continue. “Stevie, hey, it’s—you know it’s okay, right?”

“I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, David,” she says. Her jaw is clenched, her voice taut and miserable. David can’t bear it any more, has to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her close.

“And that’s okay,” he says into her hair. “It’s okay not to know, it’s okay not to be sure.” Stevie sighs against his shoulder, shuddery and exhausted, and he hugs her tighter. “What you’re dealing with right now is very personal, okay?” he tells her. “And it should only be done on your terms. Whatever is right for you, that’s what you should do.”

“Yeah, but—” Stevie sniffs against his sweater, which David generously ignores. “What if I don’t _know_ what’s right for me?”

“Well, that’s why you try different things,” David says. “Like, once I was with a guy who was really into pleather restraints, so I tried it.” Stevie looks up at him, startled into a laugh. “And that was how I learned that there’s no substitute for quality accoutrements.” She laughs again, relaxing into him. “You just take your time and enjoy yourself, and everything will turn out fine.” He rests his chin on her head. “You don’t have to figure it out right away.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stevie says. “Except.” She sighs heavily. “I do kind of need to figure out the Jake thing.”

***

“So which wine did Stevie pick?” 

David drops the box of pencils he’s holding and they go rolling across the counter to spill onto the floor.

“Fuck,” he says, “sorry, what?” David tries to stand, but his sweater is caught on the stool somehow, and he has to twist awkwardly to free it without snagging the fabric.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll get them,” Patrick says, already crouching down to scoop up the pencils. “Here.” He settles them gently in the box and pushes it toward David. “Is Stevie okay? I didn’t see her leave.”

“She went out the back.” David takes the box and puts it back with the rest of the display, adjusting the edges until it lines up correctly. “And Stevie is—” David shrugs. “She’ll be fine, she’s just...going through some stuff.”

“Ah.” Patrick nods. “With the wine.” He’s leaning against the counter, tapping his fingers against the display of lip balms. 

“Yeah, uh. The wine.” David is trapped. On the one hand, he can’t out Stevie; that’s a dick move, even if she is still fucking Jake. On the other hand, that entire conversation was about as subtle as a ketchup stain on white linen, and Patrick obviously knows something’s up. “Stevie has...a lot of feelings about wine,” he says.

“I could tell.” There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of Patrick’s eyes, in the angle of his head. “A real oenophile, that Stevie.”

“That is—yes,” David says. “That is a thing that has been said. About Stevie.”

“And she’s just getting into white wines now?” 

“Yeah, uh, she—” David scrambles. “I think she really likes the chablis?”

Patrick nods approvingly. “The chablis is good, although I’m partial to a good red, myself.”

“I—” David opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. He drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”

“David.” When he peers through his fingers, Patrick is smiling. “Would it help if I told you that Rachel texted me?”

“Um, _what?_ ” David squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment at the tone of his own voice. “I mean, ha, she’s your wife,” he says, trying for casual and knowing he’s missing it by a mile. “I’m sure she texts you a lot!”

“Ex-wife,” Patrick specifies mildly, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Where was it? Ah, here.” He clears his throat and reads. “ _So HYPOTHETICALLY_ —that’s in all caps— _if I made out with Stevie, would that be a bad choice or an amazing choice? Her hair smells so good omg._ ” Patrick looks at David, eyebrows raised. “Does that help you at all?”

“Well,” David says. “Without disclosing any information that I may or may not have been given in confidence—” He sighs. “Yes, that helps.” David frowns, thinking things through. “Wait, so Rachel is—”

“—partial to both red and white wines? Yes,” Patrick says. “And also rosé, but I’m not sure how that fits into your metaphor.”

“Yeah, no, forget the rosé.” David waves the idea away. “Or, I mean, don’t forget it, but leave it out of this nightmare conversation. It deserves better than this.”

“Noted,” Patrick says. “But, um—” He pauses, tapping his fingers against the cash. “Stevie mentioned that she also had a red wine, ah... in the house?”

Right. Jake. _Fuck_.

“I’m not—I don’t want to know anything you can’t tell me,” Patrick says. “I’m just a little worried, I guess.” He chews on a thumbnail, which is gross but somehow endearing. “Because that particular white wine has a—a little wine?” He tilts his head. “A...wine cooler?”

“Oh my god, _no_ ,” David says, bursting into horrified laughter. “Just, no, stop, please.” He shakes his head to clear the mental image. “Ugh.”

“Sorry.” Patrick grins sheepishly. “I think I broke your analogy.”

“It’s fine,” David says, and lets himself smile back. “And to answer your question, the red wine is Jake, her apparently not-so- _ex_ boyfriend.” He bites his lip. “And, ah—mine, too.” David swallows hard, fighting to keep his shoulders straight, to resist the wince he can feel building in his spine.

“Your— _oh_.” Patrick’s eyes are wide and startled and very, very blue. “I…” He trails off into agonizing silence, then shakes himself. “I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone, I guess. Um, congratulations?” 

“No, _no_ ,” David says quickly. “No, Jake and I are very firmly _ex_.” He shrugs. “And I _thought_ that he and Stevie were, too, but apparently...not so much.”

“Ah.” Patrick nods. “That’s awkward, when a friend dates someone after you do.” David looks down at the countertop, tracing the grain of the wood with the pad of his finger. “Or, uh. Before?”

“During, actually.” David doesn’t up. “In parallel, if you will.”

“Ah,” Patrick says, and his voice is so carefully neutral that David has to at least _try_ to justify himself.

“I didn’t _know_ that,” he explains, “at the time, I mean. I just—” He sighs. “Okay, so. Stevie and I hooked up, for a while. And then we stopped! And then I was dating Jake! And then it turned out that Stevie was _also_ dating Jake! And _then_ there was,” he shudders, “a _very_ uncomfortable conversation where Jake wanted the three of us to, I don’t know, all date each other?” David shakes his head, remembering. “And I said no, and I thought Stevie said no, too, but I guess that didn’t stick.”

“I’m...sorry?” Patrick says, then shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sorry, David,” he repeats. “That sounds—”

“Excruciatingly awkward and vaguely incestuous?” David says. “No, it’s fine, it was just—unexpected.” He laughs, thinking it through. “I think I’m mostly just disappointed in Stevie, now.”

“For not telling you?”

“That, yeah,” David agrees, “but also she can do so much better.” He raises an eyebrow at Patrick. “ _Completely unrelatedly_ , Rachel seems like a really lovely person.”

“She’s pretty great,” Patrick says, but he’s frowning down at the countertop. “I just. I worry about Jamie.”

“Ah,” David says, cut short. 

Patrick’s life is so different from David’s, is the thing. He’s so responsible, so adult, that sometimes David forgets that he’s only twenty-eight; if anything, it seems like he should be older than David. He’s stable and settled, mature in a way that even David’s actual parents only sometimes manage. Patrick’s life is visits to the pediatrician and making sure his daughter makes her bed, not sloppy throuple relationships and fighting with Alexis over toner.

“I think—” David stops himself, then shakes his head and starts over. “So the thing is, Stevie doesn’t really know what she’s doing,” he says. “Like, at _all._ ”

“Okay,” Patrick says. He doesn’t sound convinced, but he makes a little _go on_ gesture, waiting for David to explain.

“But,” David says, “literally the only thing Stevie wants is to not fuck this up. So, like, it might not go well? But she’s going to try her best.”

“Well.” When David looks over, Patrick is smiling, soft and gentle. “I guess that’s all anyone can do, really.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t go _that_ far.” David rolls his eyes. “For one thing, people could stop putting the sweaters back without re-folding them.”

“Yeah, true,” Patrick agrees. “And people could stop taking things from the store without paying for them.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Um, excuse you, _I_ paid for the bottle of wine that Stevie took,” David says.

“Oh good,” Patrick says. “And you’ll pay for the bottles of wine that you’ll take, too, of course.”

“Um, _obviously_ ,” David says, even though he hadn’t planned on doing that at all.

“Really, I shouldn’t worry about Rachel.” Patrick comes around the counter and taps at the trackpad to wake the computer up. “She’s a lot better than me at, I don’t know—” He gestures vaguely. “Relationships, I guess. Stuff like that.”

“Oh?” That’s not a weird response; that is a _totally normal_ response. It’s natural to be interested in a friend talking about their romantic relationships. David is showing a completely appropriate amount of curiosity.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “She’s dated a couple people seriously, since we split up.”

“And you...haven’t?” Normal, normal, David is being normal and casual and nonchalant. 

Patrick shrugs. “Not really.” He frowns at the computer and backspaces aggressively. “I mean, I’ve met some people—at bars, at clubs, you know,” he says, blessedly oblivious to the way David has to close his eyes for a split second. “There’s never been much of a connection, though.” Patrick shrugs. “Nobody I’d want to introduce to Jamie, that’s for sure.”

“That makes sense,” David says. “And, I mean, it’s not like Schitt’s Creek is exactly known for its hopping nightlife.”

“David, I’m appalled.” Patrick puts on a stern expression that promptly starts to slide into a smile. “How can you slander the Wobbly Elm like that?”

“Um, _extremely easily_ ,” David says, but he’s laughing too.

“I haven’t checked out the Dude Cave, though.” 

David freezes, his ears ringing. 

“I keep meaning to,” Patrick continues, “but we’ve been so busy, and honestly I’m just—” Patrick shrugs. “I haven’t been feeling it, I guess.”

“The Dude Cave,” David echoes. “The—the gay bar.”

“Yeah, the gay bar, over in Elm’s Hollow. Have you been?” Patrick looks up from the computer.

“I...haven’t,” David says. “No.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well, from another _planet_ , thin and tinny and extremely obvious. Patrick shrugs and turns back to the computer, opening an Excel file, completely oblivious to the fact that David’s brain is seizing up on him.

Patrick having club hookups—that’s fine. Or, well, that’s not fine, but David can deal with that, probably. Eventually.

But now—David swallows hard at the rush of images that flash through his mind. Patrick going to the Dude Cave. Patrick having hookups with _men_. Patrick kissing men, touching men, going to his knees in an alley or a bathroom, lookup up at some random with his big eyes and his sweet clean mouth—

“I didn’t know that,” David hears himself say. “About. About you.” He can’t make any other words come out, can’t find a way to say _since when are you interested in men?_ that isn’t unfairly accusatory and grossly, wildly inappropriate.

“Sorry, what?” Patrick looks up, frowning distractedly the way he always does when David interrupts him in the middle of his spreadsheet stuff. “You didn’t know…”

“It’s none of my business,” David says. “Really, don’t—” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”

“You didn’t—did you not know that I’m gay?” Patrick’s mouth twists incredulously; David can feel the gesture in his sternum, in the back of his throat. “Um, wow.” 

“I just—I thought you were _married_ ,” David says. “To Rachel, I mean. And then—” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I assumed you were straight?”

“Yeah, no, definitely not,” Patrick says, with a little laugh. “That would be—I mean, not the _only_ reason that Rachel and I split up, but, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “One of the big ones, for sure.”

“That’s, uh. That’s fair.” David turns back to the counter, fiddling with the display of woven drink coasters. “Sorry for making assumptions,” he says, after a moment, when Patrick doesn’t say anything else.

“Well, you know what happens when you assume, David.” Patrick’s looking at the computer again but there’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I put my foot in my mouth in a really embarrassing way?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Patrick agrees. “And, ah. In the interests of not assuming anything, and just to clarify, you’re—bisexual?”

“Pansexual, actually,” David says, once he can find enough air. “I mean, I don’t hate ‘bisexual’, but pansexual feels better, for me.” He shrugs. “‘Queer’ is fine, too.”

“Noted.” Patrick honestly looks like he’s making a note of it, like he should have a pad of paper and a pen, like he’s taking this seriously. “Thank you for sharing, David,” he adds, like he takes _David_ seriously.

“Likewise,” David says. “And, again, I’m really sorry.”

Patrick shrugs. “You should have heard some of the things Rachel’s family said when they heard we were splitting up,” he says. “According to them, I had a secret family in Saskatchewan, a coke habit, and at least three criminal convictions.”

“That sounds…exhausting, frankly,” David says, and they laugh, and it’s fine.

The afternoon goes quickly. They have a few customers, and then Patrick leaves to get Jamie and go to baseball practice, leaving David alone in the store. David brings the wooden bowls out from the back room and integrates them into the existing display, moving over the hand-dipped soy wax candles to make room. Ronnie’s wife Karen comes in for a jar of wildflower honey and to give an update on the latest council gossip.

“But _why_?” David makes a face. “I mean, Ronnie has been on council for a while, right?”

“Fourteen years,” Karen confirms wearily. “Not that I’m counting.”

“So how could she _ever_ think that inviting Roland to speak at a luncheon for women and minorities in business would be a good idea?” David can’t even envision it; the two concepts sliding away from each other like oil and water as he tries to force them together in his brain. 

Karen sighs. “I honestly don’t know, but that’s not even the best part.”

“Oh, God,” David groans. “I’m not prepared.”

Once Karen leaves, the rest of the evening is quiet. A few people stop by to browse on their way to or from somewhere else, but mostly David is alone in the store in the golden summer evening. It’s good: he sweeps up, counts out the cash, lets himself slide into the rituals of closing, peaceful and familiar.

David manages to stay calm through closing and all the way back to the motel. Alexis is leaving when he arrives, saying something about a movie night at Twyla’s that sounds honestly horrific. His dad is in the front office with Stevie and his mom is at a Council meeting. David is able to get through his evening routine in peace and quiet for the first time in weeks. Nobody asks him to turn his music down, or complains about how much of the Armani night cream he’s using, or tells him a pointless story about somebody David doesn’t know and doesn’t want to. 

It’s a good evening. David shuts off the lights, gets into bed, and lets his eyes slide closed.

 _Patrick Brewer is gay_ , he thinks. The idea fills his mind, inescapable. _Patrick Brewer has sex with men. Patrick Brewer kisses men._ Alone in the room, there’s nothing to distract him from his thoughts: Patrick flirting with a man, buying a man a drink. Patrick with his sleeves rolled up, settled against the bar, smiling that little smile he gets when he’s winning and he knows it. Patrick leaning in close, speaking directly into his ear, saying, _want to go someplace a little quieter?_

David presses one hand against his cock, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. They work together; it’s not professional or respectful or the kind of thing that good people do. It’s not the kind of thing _Patrick_ would do.

Only, David thinks with a sudden jolt, what if it is? What if Patrick is jerking off right now, in his neat tidy bed with the crisp gray sheets? What if he’s got one hand on his dick, the other one playing with his ass? What if he’s pressing his face into the pillow, trying not to make noise, taking deep breaths and smelling David? What if he’s thinking about David right now, imagining David like David is imagining him? _What if_ , David thinks, _what if, what if?_

David sits up abruptly, strips off his clothes and grabs the lube from under his bed. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

So: if he met Patrick Brewer in a bar. If they talked, if they flirted. If they teased each other the way they do at the store, but _more_. If Patrick suggested getting out of there. 

David wraps a slick hand around his dick, stroking himself slowly, drawing it out. He imagines following Patrick out of the bar, pressing Patrick up against a wall and kissing him. Patrick would be a good kisser, he thinks: not too messy, but pushy enough to make it hot, to make it clear how much he’s enjoying himself. David thinks about nipping Patrick’s lower lip and kissing it better, about pulling away just enough to make eye contact and then leaning back in for another kiss.

He thinks about Patrick’s throat, the thin pale skin over his pulse. David imagines kissing that skin, once and then again, again. He imagines sucking a bruise below Patrick’s jaw, pictures himself holding Patrick in place and leaving a mark on him. Would Patrick like it if David did that, if he rubbed his face against Patrick’s neck, stubble scraping over tender, sensitized skin? Would he make noise, would he shiver, would he pull David against him?

Patrick is a pretty take-charge kind of guy, though. Maybe he wouldn’t want to be the one pinned up against a wall. Maybe Patrick would want to do the pinning. 

The idea shivers down David’s spine, hot and electric. Patrick’s not a big guy, but he moves like he is, like he’s not concerned about how much space he takes up in the world. David imagines letting Patrick push him around, just a little, letting Patrick put his hands on David’s hips and grind against him, hot and slow and filthy. David would have to slouch down to get really good friction. Maybe he’d get a leg up around Patrick’s hip. Patrick could hold it there, even, his fingers clenched tight on David’s thigh, his ass, dragging their hips together.

The bar scenario isn’t enough, and David abandons it. Instead, he thinks of being in bed with Patrick. Not Patrick’s bed, as appealing as that thought is, and definitely not this bed. Instead, David pictures an enormous white bed with fresh, high thread-count sheets. They’re naked and Patrick is on top of him, anchoring David in place, grinning down at him.

“I’m sorry, David,” he says, rocking his dick against David’s. “Did you want something?” His smile is bright and competitive, egging David on. David squirms underneath him, caught and held by Patrick’s hands, Patrick’s sharp eyes. “Did you want me to do something for you?”

“Fuck you,” David says, fucking up against Patrick as best he can. It’s barely anything, the way Patrick has him pinned, but it’s slick and hot and messy and _good._

“Hmm,” Patrick says, the same noise he makes when they’re talking about inventory. “Maybe later.” He leans in close and presses his body along David’s, skin against skin from shoulder to ankle. “Right now, I have you right where I want you.” He grinds down against David, rubbing their dicks together, and David groans and shivers and comes all over himself.

David sags back into the bed, catching his breath. He should feel bad about this, but he doesn’t, he can’t. He cleans up and puts his clothes back on, then curls up on his side, trying and failing to keep the smile off of his face. His body is ringing like a pair of cymbals, like a wine glass when you run a finger around it, shivery and echoing. Some of that is the orgasm, probably, but some of it is just—

_What if?_

_Maybe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patrick is reading from chapter 6 of Jules Verne's _20,000 Leagues Under The Sea_.
> 
> Canonically, the Dude Cave is a strip club, but I made it a gay bar in this because why the hell not?


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, at the store, things are weird.

David doesn’t do anything different—is very, _very_ careful not to do anything different. After all, just because Patrick is attracted to men doesn’t mean that he’s attracted to David; David’s been on the other side of that equation enough times that he’s determined not to be a creep. He doesn’t touch Patrick any more than he ordinarily would, doesn’t stand any closer when they talk, doesn’t let himself look at Patrick’s neck or his ass or his wrists.

Still, things are different. David keeps just barely catching Patrick’s gaze, a split second of intense eye contact before they both look away. There’s an energy to all of their interactions that makes everything feel significant, even when Patrick’s just asking how many cases of cold-pressed apple juice they have in the back room (two) or reminding him that he has to drive out to Saugus Mills tomorrow.

“Yeah, I know,” David says. “I was thinking I’d go after lunch, and maybe stop and see Mrs. Beaulieu on the way back.”

“The silk lady?” Patrick tilts his head, frowning slightly.

“She said she had some new designs that might be good for the store,” David says, which is most of the truth. “I’d rather only make the drive once, if tomorrow’s good for her.”

“That’s a good idea, David,” Patrick says. It shouldn’t send goosebumps down David’s arms, but it does.

“Yeah.” David’s voice comes out dry and creaky. He takes a sip of juice. “Yeah, I’ll go call her.” David grabs his phone and steps into the back room. The back of his neck is warm, skin tight like a sunburn.

Mrs. Beaulieu is free, so the next day sees David pulling into her driveway, three boxes of hand-carved salad tongs rattling in the back seat. He waits for the dust to settle—his shoes are Rick Owens—and when he steps out, she’s waiting for him on the porch.

“David Rose,” She smiles at him from her rocking chair. “Come sit with me.”

Marion Beaulieu wears her hair in a single long braid down her back, streaks of gray peeking through the dark brown. She wears oversized flannel shirts, hiking boots, and jeans with suspicious stains on the hem. Even by the new standards David’s developed since moving to Schitt’s Creek, she’s deeply, tragically unfashionable.

She also makes some of the most amazing handspun silk he’s ever seen, turning piles of brightly-colored fluff into smooth, delicate thread. David climbs the steps and sinks into the chair next to hers, watching her hands work, the spindle rising and falling like magic.

“There’s lemonade,” she says, tilting her head towards the table between the two chairs. David fills the empty glass on his side, then leans forward and refills the half-empty glass next to Marion. “Thank you, dear,” she says. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

“Take your time,” he says. 

The first few times David came out here, he came with Patrick, who found the whole experience incredibly frustrating. Everything Marion does takes so much _time_ , and there’s absolutely no hurrying her; she’ll be done when she’s done, and not before. Patrick kept interrupting her, trying to change the subject, and she’d hear him out politely and then pick up her story exactly where he’d cut her off. 

David loves it. It’s a completely different rhythm than he’s used to, but Marion is sharp and perceptive and incredibly knowledgeable about her craft. He only sort of understands how she does what she does, but there’s something magical about listening to her explain it, this deep well of skill that she shares so generously. It reminds him of the best parts of his life in New York: talking with smart, passionate people about the things they care about the most, finding the best way to showcase their talent.

Plus, there are usually cookies at some point. David sips his lemonade and lets himself sit with the quiet sounds of the rocking chairs, the breeze, the steady rhythm of Marion’s hands as she pulls beauty out of nothing. 

“There!” Marion does something incomprehensible with her spindle, wrapping off the last ends of her thread. “Now, what was I going to show you?” She digs through the basket next to her chair, grumbling, and then tugs a bundle of fabric free. “Hah,” she says, dumping the fabric into David’s lap. 

David finds an edge and shakes it out to reveal a shawl. It’s gorgeous, of course, as usual: greens and blues and vibrant purples coiled around each other in an endless fractal spiral. The rest of the pile is the same vivid, shimmering colors, crossing and re-crossing in intricate patterns.

“They’re beautiful, Marion,” he says. “We’d be happy to sell them.” 

Of course they can’t have a simple conversation about prices and quantities. Marion tells him all about the dying process, the spindle she uses, the adjustments that her niece has been making to the loom. She’s a shockingly shrewd negotiator, too, behind all of the artistic details. Still, they end up with a deal that David feels good about.

“Well, that was lovely, dear,” Marion says, like she does every time. “Was there anything else?”

“Actually—”

“Oh?” David hesitates, and she pats his hand. “Have another cookie, dear.”

David takes a cookie and explains what he’s thinking of.

“Hm,” Marion says. “I think we can work something out.”

***

A few days later, David is alone in the store when Rachel comes in, followed closely by Jamie.

“Patrick?” Rachel’s voice is louder than David usually likes in the store, harsh and jarring in his calm, still space. There’s something anxious about the set of her shoulders, though, so he doesn’t call her on it, just looks up from his book and smiles apologetically.

“Not here, sorry,” he says. “He went out to Elmdale to meet with the bank about—something,” he finishes.

“Fuck,” Rachel says, then turns to Jamie. “Do _not_ tell your father I said that word in front of you.”

“Mom, it’s _fine_ ,” Jamie says, rolling her eyes.

“Everything okay?” Rachel turns, biting her lip in a gesture that David’s seen a million times from Jamie.

“I have a patient going into labor,” she says, which, _yikes_. “She was going to head to the birthing center in Elm River, but her brother took the car and her water broke ten minutes ago.”

“Um, I am—really, really not equipped to help you with that,” David says. “Like. At all.”

“She’s having twins,” Jamie says. “Mom, I told you, it’s fine. David can take me to baseball.”

“David has the store, honey,” Rachel says, and sighs. “Sorry, I forgot about the fu—” she glances down at Jamie, “—the _stupid_ bank thing. It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ll just—”

“I mean, I can definitely take her to baseball,” David cuts in. “I can’t deliver twins, but I’m pretty sure I can handle baseball practice.”

Rachel stares at him, guilty and relieved. “David, but—the store—”

He shrugs her off. “Tuesday afternoons have been pretty dead anyways,” he says. “I’m happy to take Jamie to baseball.”

“I _told_ you,” Jamie says, but David can barely hear her: Rachel is rushing around the counter to hug him fast and hard, murmuring _thank you, seriously, thank you so much_ in his ear.

“She’s got her stuff, she should be all set. Jamie, do you have your water bottle?” Jamie holds up an electric blue water bottle obediently. “There’s snacks in the bag. What else, what else…” Rachel narrows her eyes, giving Jamie an intense once-over. “Sunscreen!” She snaps her fingers. “Umm, I think there’s some in the car?”

“There’s sunscreen in the store, mom,” Jamie says. “Remember, I told you about it?”

“There is,” David agrees. “We take skincare very seriously around here.” Rachel hesitates again, and David takes her by the shoulders, steering her toward the door. “Seriously, go, deal with your babies, we’ll be fine.”

“They’re not _my_ babies,” Rachel says, but she smiles and lets David usher her to the door. “Seriously, thank you so much,” she says again, pulling him in for another hug. “You be good for David, kiddo, okay?” She reaches out with one arm and pulls Jamie against them, an awkward three-person hug. David feels Jamie’s nod against his ribcage but can’t make out what she says. Rachel must be satisfied, though, because she squeezes them both tight and then lets go, rushing out the door to her car.

“Okay.” David looks down at Jamie. “So, sunscreen?”

“Practice isn’t until four,” Jamie tells him.

David shakes his head. “You need to apply sunscreen at least thirty minutes before going out into the sun,” he says. “Come up here and I’ll do your face.” He pats the stool behind the counter, then digs in the junk drawer for the jar of moisturizing facial sunscreen he keeps for personal use as Jamie scrambles up.

Jamie mostly holds still for the sunscreen, letting David dab it onto her face with his ring finger and only squirming when he rubs it over the tips of her ears.

“That _tickles_ , David,” she informs him. “Also, I have a hat.”

“Does your hat cover your ears?” David asks. “Trust me, if I learned one thing in the Seychelles, it’s that sunburned ears are not a good look for anyone.” He steps back to look at Jamie, rubs in a smear of sunscreen above her eyebrow, and nods. “Do your arms, too,” he tells her, handing her the regular sunscreen. “And the back of your neck.”

“Why do I need a different sunscreen for my arms?” Jamie tilts her head and frowns up at him, one hand full of sunscreen. “And what are the Seychelles?”

“Um, because if you use regular sunscreen on your face, you’ll break out,” David says. “And the Seychelles are islands in the Indian Ocean.”

“Where’s that?” David winds up pulling out his phone to show her the Seychelles on a map and then fielding a series of questions about why he was there (vacation), how he got there (on a plane), whether his family went with him (no), and whether he had fun (yes). At least Jamie puts on sunscreen during her interrogation.

“What did you do there?” The real answer to that question is _a lot of E, and also Jared Leto’s sister’s hairstylist,_ but David’s not going to tell her that.

“We went swimming,” he says instead, and then glances at his phone. “Look at the time, we should probably get going, hmm?” Fortunately, Jamie’s too young to call him on it, just grabs her bag and waits by the door while David locks up the store.

The walk to the baseball field goes quickly. When they arrive, Jamie drops her bag and runs to the small group of people standing on the field without a backwards glance. David watches her go, then picks up the backpack and makes his way to the metal benches at the side of the field. 

He’s halfway through a twitter thread on the cosmetic benefits of bee stings when someone sits down next to him.

“Hi!” Her teeth are very white and her earrings are too big for her face; she doesn’t look like Jocelyn Schitt yet, but David is sure she’ll get there in a few more years. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before—which one is yours?” She holds out a hand. “Cheryl Ennis, Mikayla’s mom.”

“David Rose. I’m here with Jamie Brewer,” he says, freeing his hand to point to Jamie, currently listening to whatever the director is saying with her arms crossed over her chest, head tilted attentively.

“Oh, _Jamie_ ,” she coos. “We just love Jamie, she’s such a sweetheart.” She frowns in what’s probably supposed to be confusion. David’s seen better acting in Lifetime Christmas specials. “I didn’t realize Rachel was seeing someone new.” Her laugh isn’t the most annoying he’s ever heard, but it’s certainly grating. “Maybe we’ll see more of her now that you two are an _item._ ”

“Oh, no,” David says. “I’m a friend of the family.” It’s been a while since he’s smiled like this, all teeth and insincerity, but he hasn’t lost the trick of it. “Rachel’s lovely, though, and so accomplished. I mean, med school—not everybody can handle that.” He tilts his head. “And what do _you_ do?”

“I—”

“Cheryl, come on, stop grilling the poor guy.” The new voice comes from a woman in truly repellent cargo shorts and a backwards baseball cap; David likes her immediately. She drops onto the bench next to David with a smile. “David Rose, right?” Her handshake is firm and brisk. “Kathy Appleby. You run the general store?”

“Rose Apothecary, yes,” he says. “Patrick Brewer, Jamie’s dad, he’s my business partner.” 

Kathy nods. “Mine’s Olivia, in the green shirt.”

“Olivia, right,” David says, and looks obediently, trying to remember Jamie talking about an Olivia. “She’s, um—does she have a plant? That eats...bugs?”

Kathy covers her face with her hands, laughing. “A Venus Flytrap, yes,” she says. “My daughter’s defining characteristic: carnivorous plants.” She shakes her head.

“Jamie was very impressed,” David tells her. Personally, he can’t think of much that’s less appealing than feeding live insects to a plant, but then again, he also doesn’t share Jamie’s interest in bog bodies.

“Kindred spirits, clearly,” Kathy says, shuddering. “I make my wife supervise the feedings. Speaking of which—” She makes a face. “Sorry, weird segue, but Lucie bought a bag of candied ginger from your store a few months back, and every time she goes back to get more, you’re sold out.” She widens her eyes dramatically. “Please tell me you’re still carrying it? I’m obsessed with the stuff.”

“From Quince Meadows?” Kathy nods, and David smiles. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? We _are_ out, but we’ve got another shipment coming in next week, on—Wednesday, I think?” David pulls out his phone and scrolls through his email, looking for the confirmation message. “Yeah, Wednesday.” He looks up at Kathy. “Do you want me to set some aside for you?”

“Would you?” Kathy beams at him. “That would be _amazing._ ” Behind her, Cheryl gives an aggrieved huff and stands up. Kathy waits a moment as she walks away, then lets out a long sigh. “Sorry, Cheryl’s kind of the worst,” she says, her voice low and conspiratorial.

“I hadn’t noticed,” David says, and Kathy barks out a laugh.

“I like you,” she says. “You should stick around.”

The benches have filled up as they've been talking. Kathy introduces him to a few more people, all of whom nod appreciatively when she says, "David Rose, from Rose Apothecary—he's here with Jamie Brewer." It's unclear whether the store or Jamie are the bigger draw; several people know Jamie by name, and a bubbly blonde woman with a terrible manicure praises her throwing arm and her spatial awareness.

"Yes," David says, like a person knows what _spatial awareness_ means in the context of baseball. "She is certainly very...aware."

It's not a bad way to spend the afternoon, though. A few of the parents have clearly been by the Apothecary and ask about particular products or vendors. David finds himself pulling out his phone to start a list of special requests.

"We can certainly set some of that tea aside for you," he tells the last woman, "or I can have my partner bring it to the next practice, if that's easier?"

"Your—oh, _Patrick,_ " says _Barbara-Klein,-call-me-Barb,-Kaylie's-mom_. "He’s such a great guy!” She beams. “I’m glad you two have each other."

"No, I—" David is saved from having to figure out a socially acceptable response by the sudden appearance of the man himself, climbing out of his car and stretching out his shoulders. "That's actually him over there, if you'll excuse me?" _Call-me-Barb_ waves him off, and he walks a few steps towards the parking area, waving to get Patrick's attention. “Patrick!”

Patrick’s head snaps around and he scans the crowd, one hand shading his eyes. He seems to look past David a few times before he actually notices him—which, _rude_ —but he jogs over with gratifying enthusiasm.

“David?” He looks around David to scan the field. “What are you—is everything okay?”

“Jamie’s fine,” David says, turning to point her out. “There, see? Stage left.”

“Stage—” Patrick is looking in completely the wrong direction, so David puts a hand on his shoulder to turn him towards his daughter. Jamie’s crouched over with her hand in her baseball glove, watching the foreground action intently. 

“There, see?” He can tell when Patrick spots Jamie by the way the tension flows out of him: his shoulders drop a solid inch and a half, and David can practically see the muscles in Patrick’s neck unknotting themselves.

“Okay.” Patrick scrubs both hands over his face and lets out a long, shivery breath. “Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine,” David says. “She’s fine, everything’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Patrick takes another deep breath, then shakes his head, turning to David with one eyebrow raised. “Since when are you a fan of the Schitt’s Creek Junior Salamanders, though?”

David shrugs. “Rachel came by the store this afternoon—she had a thing, and I said I could take Jamie.”

“Huh.” Patrick blinks, his face unreadable. “That’s—huh.”

“It was twins, I think?” David shrugs. “Sorry, I assumed she would text you.”

“Well, twins,” Patrick says. “That’s pretty distracting.”

“Dad! David!” Jamie comes running from the field, waving at them. “Hi!” She barely slows down as she reaches them, barrelling into Patrick’s side with an audible thud and throwing her arms around him.

“Hi, bug,” he says, laughing. “Good practice?”

“Mr. Harper said my fastball is really coming along,” Jamie says.

“That’s great news,” Patrick says. “And did you say thank you to David for bringing you to baseball practice?” 

“He said he didn’t mind—”

“ _Jamie._ ”

“Thank you, David,” she says obediently. 

“Seriously, thank you so much,” Patrick says. “I know you’re not a big fan of, ah—”

“Baseball? Sports? The outdoors, generally?” David shakes his head. “I’m not, but I’m a huge fan of broadening our client base.” Patrick gives him a blank look, and David sighs. “I’m sorry, did you somehow fail to notice that we’re surrounded by our target demographic, here?” He gestures toward the swarm of moms collecting their various children from the baseball field.

“I...guess I did miss that,” Patrick says, blinking. “I mostly just watch the practice, when I’m here.”

“Well, next week you can watch the practice _and_ bring Barbara some of the nettle leaf tea,” David informs him. “Are we done here?” He turns and looks Jamie over. “You had a water bottle, right? Where is it?”

“Uh…” She glances around, then sprints back to the field.

“And her bag is here,” David says, handing it over to Patrick.

“Thanks,” Patrick says. “Can I give you a ride back to the store?”

“Um, we’re closed,” David says. “Obviously, given that our only two employees are standing right here.”

“It’s quarter past five,” Patrick says. “Our hours say that we’re open—”

“—until seven thirty, yes, true,” David agrees. “On the other hand, I already counted out the cash for the night and ran the thing. You know, the little—the thing you always yell at me for forgetting,” he adds when Patrick just stares at him blankly.

“The Z report, David?” Patrick rolls his eyes. “Also known as the official record of what we sold?”

“That, yes,” David says. “The _point_ is, I already ran it and put it on the clipboard, so if we went back and re-opened now it would throw your whole system off.” He pauses. “Also, I don’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick says, his eyes crinkling like he’s trying not to laugh. “Can I drop you at the motel, then? Spare you the walk?”

“That, you can absolutely do,” David informs him. “This is more than enough sports for one day, thank you very much.”

“I feel like I should point out that you didn’t actually do anything athletic, David.” Patrick is outright laughing now. “That was all Jamie.”

“What was all me?” Jamie trots up to them and leans against Patrick’s side. “Also, look, David, I found it!” she adds, holding up the water bottle for his inspection.

“Great,” David tells her. “And your dad was just saying what a great job you did today.”

“ _Daaad._ ” The face Jamie makes is a perfect twin to the look on Patrick’s face when he thinks David is being ridiculous. “You weren’t even here!”

“Well, David told me all about it,” Patrick says. His smile does something deeply unfortunate to David’s knees. “Come on, you two, let’s get going.”

***

“I have two invitations for you.”

David finishes edging his way through the door, then turns to look at Patrick over the armful of boxes he’s carrying.

“And I have twelve dozen cage-free eggs, so can this conversation wait a minute, maybe?”

“...right, sorry,” Patrick says. “Here, let me just—” He comes around the counter and clears a space on the table.

“Thank you.” David sets the eggs down on the table, then turns to Patrick. “So, these invitations.”

“Right.” Patrick hesitates, tapping his thumb against the table. “And I want to start by saying that you have absolutely no obligation to accept either one.”

“Well, you’re not Heidi Klum, so no, I don’t.”

“I—what? Never mind,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “The point is, I’m going to invite you, but you really don’t have to come, it’s totally fine.”

“Are you like this with our customers? Because our store deserves better salesmanship than this.” Patrick flushes, and David rolls his eyes. “Come _on_ , what, what can it possibly be that’s so—”

“Jamie wants to invite you to her birthday party,” Patrick says.

“I—” David stops, considering, then frowns at Patrick. “And you thought I _wouldn’t_ want to come?” Patrick starts to say something, but David cuts him off. “Wait, is it the ‘friends’ party? Because in that case, unless Splash City has reconsidered its ridiculous policy on outside beverages, you’re unfortunately correct, and I will have to decline Jamie’s generous invitation.”

“It’s—no.” Patrick blinks slowly. He looks a little bit like a computer that’s been forced to reboot, programs staggering back to life after a sudden interruption. “It’s the, ah. The family party. Cookout at my place, probably. The fifteenth—it’s a Sunday.”

“Well, in that case, you can tell Jamie that I will be _delighted_ to attend.” David nods firmly. “Okay, and the second invitation?”

“Oh, uh.” Patrick scratches the back of his neck, glancing away. “Again, you really don’t have to.”

“Yes, because I spend so much time doing things I don’t want to do,” David says. “I understand that I’m a phenomenally generous person, but I am in fact capable of telling people no.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” Patrick says. “I was here when Mr. Sanders tried to drop off those candles, remember?”

“Those candles were _clearly_ lavender, not periwinkle,” David reminds him. “I have a duty of care to our customers.”

“Okay, well.” Patrick shrugs. “Rachel is repainting the waiting room at the clinic this weekend, and she asked if you’d come help.”

“Huh.” David considers it. “And by ‘help’, we mean what, exactly?” He raises an eyebrow at Patrick. “I’m not moving furniture or doing anything involving drywall.”

“She wants your input on color schemes.” Patrick pulls out his phone. “She sent me pictures to help convince you, hang on.” He hands over the phone, scrolling through the photos for David. 

It’s—not good.

“Okay, yes,” David says. “She clearly needs as much help as she can get.” He takes the phone from Patrick and flips back through the photos. The olive paint isn’t doing the space any favors, but the lighting is also a serious problem, and there’s a couch that is just, _ugh_ , is that actually orange pleather? “Okay, well, I should be back by dinner,” he says, handing Patrick’s phone back. “Want me to grab you something at the café?”

“Dinner?” Patrick stares at him blankly. “David, it’s barely even three.”

“Listen, it took me a week and a half to come up with the moodboard for this place, so if we’re painting this weekend, I need to get over there _now_.”

“I—get me a club sandwich?” David waves acknowledgement over his shoulder as he leaves, already focused on the task ahead of him.

It’s not far to Rachel’s clinic, because nothing in Schitt’s Creek is very far from anything else. David takes a deep breath outside, steeling himself, then pushes the door open and steps in.

“Okay, so, before you start,” Rachel says, “we can’t take down any walls, but I got Ronnie to agree to install new light fixtures if we buy them, and I’ve got a little bit of extra money to spend on furniture.”

“I—hi,” David says. “Wait, what?”

“Patrick texted me.” She holds up her phone, grinning. “Thank you so much, by the way.”

“I consider it a service to the public,” David informs her. “For all of your patients, and also for me.”

“For you?”

“Knowing what this place looks like is causing me actual physical pain.” He steps into the room and turns slowly, taking it all in. “I honestly didn’t think it could be worse than those photos, but it’s—” He spreads his hands, lost for words.

“No, it’s bad, I know,” Rachel says. “Like, okay, the couch is, yes, terrible—”

“The couch is an assault on my senses.” David shudders. “Is that honestly pleather?”

Rachel nods. “And that’s actually the best of the bunch.” David looks up at her, horrified, and she holds her hands defensively. “I threw the others away, but I have to have _somewhere_ for patients to sit while they’re waiting.”

“And there weren’t any cinderblocks available?” David takes a deep breath. “Okay, so obviously that’s going, and we’re painting, and finding a light fixture that doesn’t look like it came from a high school bathroom. Anything else?”

Rachel shakes her head. “Literally anything will be better than this,” she says. “Go wild.” The door opens behind David and he steps aside to let a man with two children step into the building. “Mr. Roberts, hi, I’ll be right with you all,” Rachel says. “David, I’ll leave you to it?”

David waves her off and she disappears into the backroom with her patients, leaving him to contemplate the aesthetic disaster that is the clinic’s waiting room. The paint is atrocious, and the couch has to go, but the floor might be tolerable if they pair it with less abrasive colors. David drops gingerly onto the orange couch—which _squeaks_ under his weight, what the actual _fuck_ —and pulls out his notebook, jotting down ideas and sketching out potential layouts.

He’s been at it for maybe twenty minutes when his phone buzzes with a message from Patrick.

**What’s the diagnosis, Doc?**

David rolls his eyes. **you know i’m not the doctor, right?** Before Patrick can reply, he sends **i’m disappointed in you btw**

**???**

**you knew what this place looked like and didn’t do anything to fix it.**

**I thought I was the numbers guy?**

**Also, I did do something. I told Rachel to ask you.**

There’s really no way for David to respond to that, so he taps over to the web browser and pulls up the site for LITE-O-RAMA. The name is unfortunate, but it’s the best resource for light fixtures in the area, and some of their stuff isn’t completely hideous.

By the time Rachel finishes with her patients, he’s got five pages of notes, eight tabs open on his phone, and the beginnings of a plan.

“I should have asked, before, sorry,” he says, as she drags a folding chair over to sit next to him. “What’s your vision for the space?”

“Um, not eye-searingly awful? No, sorry.” Rachel shakes her head, drags her fingers through her hair. “I want something...clean and professional, I guess, but also welcoming? Like, I love the store, but it’s a little too—” Her mouth twists. “If I say ‘arts-and-crafty’, will you murder me in my sleep?”

“We do carry a variety of handcrafted products from a range of local artisans,” David says. “I’ll allow it.”

“Your generosity is greatly appreciated.” Rachel grins. “No, just—the store is great, I would buy literally anything you wanted to sell me, but I wouldn’t want to see a patient there, you know?”

“I would _also_ not want you to see patients in my store.” David shudders. “In fact, please promise me to never do that.” He looks down at his notebook. “That works with what I was thinking, though, actually.” He talks her through his ideas: pale blues and greens for the walls, chrome accents in the furniture and the light fixtures. Calming, crisp, clean; reassuringly professional while also being welcoming. “We might have a few prints at the store that would work over the couch, too,” he says, “once you have a couch that people can sit in without trauma.” 

Rachel is silent for a long moment when David finishes. When he looks up from his notebook, she’s watching him, her gaze considering. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just—” She tilts her head. “You’re really good at this.”

“Um, I feel like that’s supposed to be a compliment, but I’m not really appreciating the tone of surprise,” David tells her. “What were you expecting?

Rachel shakes her head, laughing. “No, it’s just—Patrick kept telling me how amazing you were at all of the design stuff at the store, and I believed him, but…” She shrugs. “Like, I lived with him for five years, you know? He’s a great guy, but his taste is pretty boring.”

“You figured he was just easily impressed.”

“Pretty much.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “I mean, this is the man who literally owns six of the exact same shirt in slightly different shades of blue. He’s not exactly a design genius.”

“Okay, so it is in fact the same shirt,” David says. “I was wondering.”

“Yup.” Rachel nods. “He buys one every six months: same shirt, same style. And, I mean, it works for him,” she adds. “He looks good in blue.”

“...he does,” David says, doing his best impression of a person who has never entertained a single thought of seeing what’s under those crisp blue shirts. Blue is a good color for Patrick Brewer. It’s not weird that David has noticed that.

Judging by the angle of Rachel’s eyebrows, he’s less successful than he’d like to be. Fortunately for David, the clinic phone rings just as Rachel is opening her mouth.

“Hang on,” she says, holding up one finger as she leans over the counter to grab the phone. “Hello, Schitt’s Creek Family Care, Doctor Brewer speaking.” She taps her fingers on the desk, listening. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Hartwell,” she says. “When would be a good time for you?” She grabs a notebook and flips a few pages, making thoughtful noises. “Next Wednesday I have ten, eleven, or two-thirty,” she says. “Would any of those—two-thirty it is, then!” She makes a note in the book. “Thanks for letting me know,” she says. “Give my best to Helen and the girls.”

“Everything okay?”

“That was my four o’clock calling to reschedule,” Rachel says, “which means that I am officially done for the day.” She tilts her head. “I should probably let you get back to the store, I guess.”

“I mean.” Thursday evenings have been slow—evenings generally have been slow, which is definitely not something David is worrying about—and it’s not like Patrick’s expecting him back right away. “Or we could look at some light fixtures?” He holds up his phone. “I have a few thoughts.”

“Hmm.” Rachel gives him a long look, thoughtful and evaluating. “Can we have wine while we do that?”

“Um, I didn’t bring any wine with me.” An oversight, clearly.

“Oh, I have wine,” Rachel says. She ducks behind the reception again and emerges with a bottle and a triumphant grin. She drops onto the other end of the horrible couch and hands David a very respectable cabernet sauvignon. “I mean, I don’t have glasses, but—”

“Psh, glasses, whatever,” David gives her the bottle back. “Really, the question is whether or not I’d be _willing_ to drink wine and talk about designing a stylish and welcoming therapeutic space at four pm on a Thursday afternoon.” 

“And would you?” 

David pauses, thinking about it 

On the one hand, he’s rabidly curious about Rachel. He’s curious about her life with Patrick, yes, and about whatever she has going on with Stevie, _absolutely_ , but also just about...her. David doesn’t really know Rachel, this sharp, sweet, vivid woman who’s somehow become part of his life; the weird thing is, he thinks he wants to. _In vino veritas_ , they say, so, sure: why _not_ drink wine with the woman who used to be married to his business partner slash crush and is currently dating his best friend and ex-fuckbuddy?

There are reasons. There are _so many_ reasons, and David is ignoring them all.

“Well?” Rachel raises her eyebrows and David gives in.

“Do you have a—oh, it’s a screw-top.” Rachel finishes opening the bottle and takes a swig, then hands it over. “Oh, uh, maybe—”

“Hey, last month it was box wine,” she says. “Count your blessings.”

“That’s disgusting,” David informs her. “And this is—” He takes a second sip. “Actually very nice.”

“Told you,” Rachel says. “Okay, let’s talk lighting.”

Unsurprisingly, Rachel has good opinions on lighting fixtures. She likes almost all of the same ones that David did, for mostly the same reasons, and when they disagree, she at least has an argument for her perspective. It doesn’t take them long at all to go through the tabs David has collected and make a tentative decision.

“I still want to see it in person, but I think that’s the one,” Rachel says, and David nods. She hands him his phone and the wine. David puts the former in his pocket and takes a drink from the latter.

“Okay, so, for furniture—” Rachel is smiling down at her phone, soft and secretive, and David clears his throat. “I’m sorry, do you need a moment?”

“No, sorry,” she says, “just texting Stevie.”

“Oh?” David raises an eyebrow. “And how is Ms. Budd doing?”

“Um, isn’t she your friend? Don’t you talk to her?” Rachel grabs the wine back and takes a long drink, meeting David’s attempt at a challenging stare with one of her own.

She’s better at it, and David caves almost instantly.

“No, it’s none of my business,” he admits. “Sorry, I just—” he sighs. “I know she’s a strong, independent woman who can take care of herself, but she’s also kind of a hot mess, and I worry about her.” He runs that sentence back and winces, looking down at the wine bottle in betrayal. He probably should have eaten something. “Fuck, sorry, that was completely inappropriate.”

“Actually, it’s kind of sweet,” Rachel tells him. “I mean, condescending as fuck, but in a nice way.” She grabs the wine bottle back and drinks. It’s almost empty, which at least means that David won’t get any more hideously honest tonight. “Patrick and I used to have exactly this problem, you know?”

“Oh?” Fuck, David wants more wine now.

“Yeah.” Rachel wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “After we split up, he kept trying to, like, backseat date for me?” She rolls her eyes. “Every time I went on a date, he’d want to meet whoever it was and interrogate them, and then if I didn’t see them again he’d want to know _why_.”

“That sounds—”

“Codependent? Intrusive? _Fucking obnoxious?_ ” 

“Something like that, yeah.” David pauses, weighing the question. “How did you get him to stop?”

“Oh, we had a massive fight about it,” Rachel says blithely. “Do you want more wine?”

“A—fight?” It’s hard for him to picture, really. Patrick can be pissy, sure, and he likes to get his way, but David can’t really imagine actually fighting with him, not in any real way.

“Yeah, a huge fight.” Rachel stands up and disappears behind the counter again, emerging with another bottle of wine. “Like, screaming at each other in the kitchen and ugly crying.” She twists the cap off the bottle and offers it to David.

“Um.” David takes the bottle, drinks, and hands it back, trying to figure out what to say. “Sorry?”

“No, it was good,” Rachel says. She leans back into the couch and closes her eyes, her face thoughtful. “I mean, it sucked, I hate watching him cry, but there was a lot of shit we needed to say to each other.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” David says weakly. Rachel’s face is peaceful and open and suddenly, blindingly, beautiful. David wishes there were a non-creepy way to take her picture right now; he wouldn’t even need a filter.

“And now we have a pact of mutual non-interference in romantic relationships.” Rachel opens her eyes and looks right at David. “By which I mean that I won’t talk to anybody he’s dating, or anybody he’s interested in dating, about their relationship, and he does the same for me. I’ll only talk to him about relationship stuff if he explicitly asks for my advice.”

“I—oh,” David says, and looks down at his hands. “That sounds—very healthy.” There’s a loose thread at the hem of his sweater; he should really do something about that. “Good for you two, for, uh.” His throat is dry, suddenly. “For making it work.”

“I mean.” Rachel’s hand presses lightly on David’s wrist. When he looks up, she’s smiling at him, gentle and understanding. “We’ve been divorced for longer than we were married, at this point. We’ve figured some shit out.” She folds his hands around the bottle of wine and David takes it, raises it to his mouth, drinks.

“It sounds hard, though,” he tells her, and Rachel nods.

“A lot of it sucked, but we got through it.” She chews on a thumbnail. “He’s honestly a great guy, even though we weren’t good together.” 

There is nothing, literally _nothing_ that David can say to that. He takes another drink of wine instead, and Rachel laughs like she can hear all of the words he’s swallowing back.

“Anyway, to answer your question, things are going well with Stevie,” she says. “I really like her.”

“She’s pretty great,” David says. “I mean, also the worst, but—” He shrugs. “She’s good.”

“To good people, even when they’re the worst,” Rachel says, grabbing the bottle of wine and raising it in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Um, so will I, if you give me the wine back,” David says. Rachel rolls her eyes, but hands the bottle over. “To all of the terrible people we like anyways,” he says, lifting the wine and taking a drink.

“Hear, hear,” Rachel says. “Speaking of terrible, you know that Patrick was on the curling team in high school, right?”

David almost chokes. “Fucking—what?” He shakes his head to clear it. “I thought he played baseball?”

“Oh, he did,” Rachel says. “And hockey, and he tried out for the football team, but he didn’t make it.” She reclaims the bottle of wine. “But, yeah, he was on the curling team. _And!_ ” She takes a drink, her eyes dancing, making David wait for it; if nothing else, he has to respect her sense of dramatic timing. “He was a _cheerleader_ for two years.” She holds the wine bottle out to David, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” David says, fumbling for the bottle and draining it. “I’m sorry, I just—I need some context, I think.” He looks down at the empty bottle. “And possibly more wine.”

“I can help you on both of those fronts,” Rachel says, and oh, David _likes_ her.

*

“—and _then_ ,” Rachel says, gasping out the words, “and then _Patrick_ says,” she breaks off, laughing, and scrubs her hands across her face. “Fuck, he says, ‘Mr. Hanscomb, I swear, _I_ bought the goat!’” 

“Oh my god, I can’t breathe,” David says, pressing his forehead against the back of the couch. His skin sticks to the pleather with a revolting squelching sound. “Fuck, what the fuck, what was he _thinking_?”

“...I mean, I did buy the goat,” Patrick says from the doorway. “Although I admit that I didn’t realize how that would sound before I said it.”

“Patrick!” Rachel turns to him, beaming. “We were just talking about you!”

“I heard that,” Patrick says. “So I assume the design process is going well?”

“—Fuck,” David says, realizing. “I was going to get you a sandwich.”

“I stopped by the café.” Patrick pulls up a folding chair and sits. “Rachel’s texts made me think you might need something to eat.” David turns to Rachel, who waggles her phone at him, beaming.

“...you’re _sneaky_ ,” David says. He’s impressed.

“Yup!” Rachel pops the final consonant aggressively. “And you’re good at design stuff. Patrick!” She turns to point unsteadily at Patrick. “Patrick, David is really good at this design stuff.”

“I know, Rach,” Patrick says. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that I told you that.” He looks over at David. “I did tell her that.”

“Yeah,” David says, “but you also wore a bolo tie to your senior prom, so your opinions are suspect.”

“Oh, so it’s _that_ kind of a conversation,” Patrick says, as Rachel dissolves into giggles. “Well, I’m glad to see that you two were having a good time while I was hard at work.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” David says. “I should have come back once we finished, I just—” _I wanted to know more about your ex-wife. I wanted to know more about you_. “I got distracted.”

“It’s fine, David,” Patrick says. “The store was basically dead all evening anyways.” David makes a face, and Patrick winces. “Yeah, that’s not actually a reassuring thing, huh.”

“Not so much, no.”

“I have a few thoughts,” Patrick says, “but I think we should maybe discuss those tomorrow morning.” He tilts his head, smiling at David. “Maybe tomorrow afternoon.”

“I look forward to hearing your thoughts,” David says. He’s aiming for ‘nonchalant’, but between the wine and the way Patrick’s smiling at him, it comes out soft and upsettingly sincere.

“And I look forward to my fucking _bed_ , ugh, this couch is a nightmare,” Rachel says. “Patrick, help me up.” She waves her hands around, rocking back and forth on the couch. “Paaaatrick.”

“Okay, come on, there we go.” Patrick catches Rachel’s wrist and steadies her as she wobbles to her feet. “Okay, you just—stay there, hang on,” he says, and, oh, oh no, he’s turning and reaching out to David. “Here, I’ve got you,” he says, and David lets himself be pulled up from the couch. Patrick’s hands are firm under his elbow and around his back, holding David in place as he sways. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” David says. “It’s just the wine.”

“Well, there are mozzarella sticks in the car,” Patrick says, “since I assume I’m driving you both home?”

“Yes,” Rachel hisses. She starts lurching her way towards the door. “Fried cheese and a ride, you’re the best ex-husband _ever_.”

The mozzarella sticks are both completely disgusting and exactly what David wants to eat right now; he and Rachel kill the bag almost before the car gets to the end of the street. Fortunately, Patrick has provided them with an array of greasy diner foods, and they eat their way through the drive.

Patrick walks Rachel into her apartment, because he’s a nice guy, then comes back and opens David’s door.

“You’re a nice guy,” David informs him. “Unless you’re opening the door to kick me out of the car and make me walk home, in which case you’re an asshole.”

“I’m not going to make you walk home, David,” Patrick says. “I just thought you might want to sit in the front seat, now that it’s just the two of us.” He smiles, soft and easy, a little teasing. “You can keep me company.” 

“Well, if you insist,” David says. He stumbles a little getting out of the car, but Patrick is there, his hands warm and steady on David’s shoulders, and fuck, David _likes_ him, David likes him _so much_.

“Here,” Parick says, steering David into the front seat. “Oh, hang on, let me just—” Suddenly he’s leaning into the car, his head over David’s lap, his hand brushing David’s calf. “Sorry, Rachel always pushes it all the way forward.” There’s a muffled _thunk_ and David’s seat slides backward. “You should be more comfortable like that.”

“I—yeah,” David says, closing his eyes. “Yeah, thanks.” 

“You need me to get your seatbelt, or are you good?” David thinks briefly about the mental image that sentence evokes—Patrick leaning close to buckle him in, Patrick’s hands brushing over his hips—and scrambles for his seatbelt. “Here,” Patrick says, guiding the buckle into David’s hands, and then he’s shutting the car door and circling around to the driver’s side.

David buckles his seatbelt, then covers his face in his hands and takes several deep breaths. This is fine. He’s fine. He’s not going to make this weird, he’s _not._

“David? You okay?” Patrick’s hand lands on David’s shoulder. “Do you need a minute?”

“No, I’m—fine,” David says, eventually. He forces himself to fold his hands in his lap, to open his eyes, to smile at Patrick like a normal fucking human being. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

“Just let me know if you need me to stop the car so you can puke,” Patrick says. His tone is inappropriately cheerful.

“That’s disgusting,” David informs him. “I would _never_.”

“You haven’t been drinking with Rachel before, either.” Patrick starts the car and glances over at David. “Speaking of which, make sure you have some water when you get back to the motel.”

“What am I, some kind of a child?”

“No,” Patrick says thoughtfully, “I don’t think I’ve ever worried about _Jamie_ throwing up in the car.” He puts the car in reverse and twists around, bracing his hand on the back of David’s seat as he backs out of the parking spot.

“...where _is_ Jamie?” David looks into the back seat, like somehow Jamie will have materialized there since he left it.

“She’s got a sleepover,” Patrick says, turning out onto the street. “One of the girls from baseball, the one whose mom you’re best friends with now. Karen? Kelly?” The way he wrinkles his nose is offensively adorable.

“You’re thinking of Olivia,” David informs him. “And her mom, Kathy.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Who has been really invaluable in helping us make connections with the moms of the greater Schitt’s Creek community. You should be grateful.”

“Oh, I’m very grateful, David,” Patrick says, a smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth. “You have no idea how grateful I am.”

 _You could show me_ , David doesn’t say. Something must show on his face, though, because Patrick clears his throat and turns back to the steering wheel, his hands at a responsible ten-and-two, a flush of color high on his cheeks.

“So I’m a little afraid of the answer,” Patrick says, “but what did you and Rachel talk about?”

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

“I would, actually.” Patrick says dryly. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” David tells him. “She’s a really interesting person.”

“She is,” Patrick says. “I’m glad you two are getting along.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Although now I’m wondering if I should make plans with Stevie this weekend.”

“Umm.” David is treated to a hi-definition supercut of every time he’s talked to Stevie about Patrick, everything she could potentially say; none of it is anything less than excruciating. “I’m going to veto that, actually?”

“Veto?” Patrick looks at David just long enough to raise an eyebrow, then turns back to the road. “I wasn’t aware that you had veto power over my friendships.”

“Well, I am the creative side of this particular partnership,” David tells him.

Patrick hums thoughtfully. “It’s just that I feel like Stevie and I have a lot to talk about,” he says. “Budgets, you know. Business.”

“Mmm,” David says, trying and failing to keep the smile off of his face. Patrick glances over and quirks an eyebrow at him, wry and knowing, but doesn’t say anything.

They drive in comfortable silence for a while. David relaxes into the seat, twisted sideways to watch Patrick’s face in the flickering glow of streetlights and passing cars. Patrick is just unfairly attractive, is the problem: the pristine skin of his neck, his stupidly long eyelashes, the flash of his tongue wetting his pink lips. David wants to kiss him, wants to _bite_ him, wants to strip Patrick naked and press their bodies together until they’re both sweaty and trembling—

—and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, the most easily-explained part of what David wants. He wants to fuck Patrick absolutely blind, sure, but he wants so many other things, things he can’t bear to look at directly, things he can only think about when he’s half-asleep or drunk or both. 

He wants to brush his thumb along Patrick’s eyebrow and ruffle all the hairs, then smooth them back down when Patrick glares at him. He wants to kiss the back of Patrick’s arm, the point of his ear, the curve of his side: not for sex, not to arouse, just to press his mouth against the warm solid reality of Patrick. He wants to let Patrick see him first thing in the morning, before he’s moisturized or done his hair. He wants to put Patrick in a pair of pants that actually fit, but he also wants to buy Patrick another half dozen stupid blue button downs, just to see him smile. He wants to listen sympathetically when Patrick complains about the PTA moms, wants to quiz Jamie on her history homework, wants to know the parents at the baseball games, wants to care about the fucking baseball games.

He wants to look at Patrick forever, just like this, and he wants Patrick to look back at him the same way.

“David.” There’s an undercurrent of laughter in Patrick’s voice, like maybe this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get David’s attention. “David, we’re here.”

“Oh.” David turns to face forward and yep, that’s the motel. Ew. He wrinkles his nose and turns back to Patrick. “I don’t want to.”

“You say that now,” Patrick says, unbuckling his seatbelt, “but you’ll be a lot happier tomorrow if you drink some water tonight.” He opens his door and steps out before David can marshal his extremely compelling arguments against mornings in general and Friday morning in particular, and then somehow Patrick is around the car and opening the door behind David.

“...hi,” David says, leaning his head back to look at Patrick. “You’re over there now.”

“Can you get your seatbelt yourself, or do you need help?”

“Excuse _you_.” David unbuckles his seatbelt with a completely normal amount of fumbling. “I am entirely capable of handling my own—” He manages to stand up, but snags his foot on the doorframe and almost falls flat on his face, which would have undercut his declaration of independence considerably. Fortunately, Patrick is there to catch him.

“Entirely capable of what, now?” Patrick’s face is very close, his mouth gleaming in the dim motel light, and all of David’s good intentions go up in smoke.

It’s nothing at all to lean in and brush his lips against Patrick’s, once, twice, again, _again_. Patrick’s mouth is warm and soft, opening to David with a muffled noise that David swallows greedily. The kiss is slow and achingly tender and David loses himself in it, in the glide of Patrick’s tongue against his, the pressure of Patrick’s hand against his jaw, the delicate press of Patrick’s teeth in his lower lip.

He’s been trying so hard to avoid thinking about how Patrick would kiss, but it turns out that all of his half-hidden fantasies were wrong. Patrick isn’t shy and hesitant, making David chase him, but he’s also not particularly pushy. Instead he’s just _there_ , warm and familiar, holding David close and kissing him like this is the natural next step, like this feels as right to him as it does to David. 

It’s nothing David has ever thought about wanting; it’s so hot David can barely stand it. He groans into Patrick’s mouth and lets himself be pressed back against the side of the car, lets Patrick slide a thigh in between his legs and grind up against him. Patrick breaks away to gasp something incoherent against David’s shoulder. David ignores him—it’s not that he doesn’t care about Patrick’s opinions, but there’s a patch of skin under Patrick’s left ear that requires David’s immediate attention and also his teeth.

“You should go inside,” Patrick repeats, and David freezes.

“I—” The words are sticking somewhere behind his sternum, miles away from ever making it out of his mouth; all he can do is blink at Patrick, willing the sentence he just heard to make a different sort of sense.

“You’ve had a lot of wine.” Patrick brushes his hand along the side of David’s face. “Look, we’ll—can we just talk in the morning?” He tilts his head. “Maybe the afternoon.”

“No, the—” David clears his throat, tries to find his voice. “Tomorrow morning is—is fine.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, and pulls David into a hug, warm and gentle and unfairly reassuring. “Go inside, drink something that’s not wine, get some sleep.” He steps back, leaving David shivering against the car. It’s cold without Patrick pressed up against him.

“Okay, just—” David swallows hard, bites his lip. “I’m just trying to get, uh—a little clarity? On...whatever just happened?” He’s doing the thing with his hands, the thing Stevie makes fun of him for, but he can’t stop himself. “Because, like, I’m not exactly a blushing virgin over here, but I honestly don’t know if that was a brush-off or not.”

“David.” Patrick shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “It’s not a brush off. It’s—” He tilts his head, raises his eyebrows. “Let’s say that we’re hitting ‘pause’ for now, okay?”

“...okay,” David agrees cautiously. _Pause_ does sound better than _It’s not you, it’s me_ , after all. It’s just— “Can I jerk off about this, though? Just to be clear.”

“Oh my god, David, go to _bed_.” Patrick actually takes David by the shoulders and spins him to face the door, gives him a little shove. David makes his way to the room with minimal wobbling, although he does smack his shoulder on the doorframe when he turns around to demonstrate this accomplishment to Patrick.

“Ta da!”

“Very impressive, David,” Patrick says. “Now go drink some water and go to bed.”

“And we’ll talk in the morning?”

“And we’ll talk in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wikipedia informs me that Jared Leto doesn't have a sister, but you know what? I don't care. _David_ doesn't know that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of abortion

“David.”

David groans and presses his face deeper into the pillow. He’s got a sinking feeling that the moment he sits up and opens his eyes he’s going to be hungover as all fuck; staying in bed is definitely the winning plan.

“ _David._ ” Alexis’ voice is nearer now. David doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that she’s standing over his bed with her hands on her hips, frowning down at him. “David, can you turn off your fucking phone? And maybe, I don’t know, shove it up your ass?”

“Go play in traffic, Alexis,” he mutters, but grabs at his nightstand blindly until Alexis makes an offended noise and pushes his phone into his hand.

“Whatever, I’m super busy today and do _not_ have time for your selfishness,” she says. “I’m leaving now.”

“Great.” David cracks an eye open enough to silence his alarm. “Feel free to never come back.”

“Ugh,” Alexis says, stomping away. She slams the door on the way out, hard enough to set up an ominous low pounding in the back of David’s head. He drifts for a bit, half-drowsing, carefully not thinking about how he feels or why he feels that way.

Eventually, though, his alarm starts up again. David opens his eyes just enough to shut off the alarm properly, which leaves him staring at a series of notifications. The first two are from Patrick: one sent the night before, the other early in the morning.

**Make sure you drink some water!**

**Don’t worry about coming in this morning - get some rest and I’ll text you if we have a sudden rush.**

The third, from a number David doesn’t remember saving to his phone, is from Rachel: **we sure made some choices last night.**

He answers Rachel first, tapping in to his messages to type **no offense but i fucking hate you right now**. He regrets it as soon as it’s sent, staring at the screen through one half-open eye and watching the three dots appear and disappear, bracing himself.

**lol if it helps i kind of hate me too?**

**ugggggh why do i ever take 9am appointments, this is the worst**

**u r so lucky patrick doesn’t make you open**

And then David’s thinking about it, thinking about Patrick, buried in an an avalanche of everything he’s been trying not to look at directly ever since he woke up. 

He kissed Patrick last night, and Patrick was—into it? 

David needs a shower, another three hours of sleep, and about a gallon of coffee before he’s going to be able to deal with that in any meaningful way; unfortunately, only one of those things is easily accessible. He rolls out of bed and staggers to the bathroom, turning the tap as far left as it will go and leaning against the door as the water heats up.

“Kids!” It’s his dad, barrelling into their room like he always does. “David? Alexis? It’s trash day!”

“I’m in the shower,” David shouts back. “Get it later!”

“David, I’ve _told_ you, just tie the bag up and leave it outside,” but David steps into the shower and lets the rush of the water drown his father out. 

Washed and dressed, David feels marginally more human, if not any less hungover. Even better, he manages to make it out of the motel without having to interact with anyone in his family, which is always a plus. He has a moment of hesitation at the door to the reception—Stevie is in there, and he could really use her particular brand of caustic reassurance right now—but hears his father’s voice and turns away.

The café is mercifully empty, and Twyla brings David his coffee with a minimum of conversation. He does still learn a lot more than he’d like to about her cousin’s girlfriend’s mother’s missing dog, but that’s...honestly not the worst conversation David has had with Twyla.

And anyway, the coffee is hot and bitter and plentiful, so whatever.

“One for the road?” Twyla’s smile is soft, somehow, like she knows exactly what David is going through this morning. Hopefully she doesn’t, but honestly David wouldn’t put it past her.

“Yes, please.” David pauses, glancing across the street at the store. “And…” He doesn’t finish the sentence—can’t, quite—but Twyla follows his gaze and nods understandingly.

“And a tea?” She doesn’t make him answer, just disappears into the kitchen and leaves David staring across the street at his store, _their_ store, gold letters gleaming in the morning sun, timeless and elegant and just right.

Patrick is in there right now, David knows. He’s spraying the vegetables, maybe, or doing something incomprehensible with their ordering spreadsheet. Patrick is in there, and soon enough David will be in there too, and they’ll be in the same room for the first time since David kissed him last night, since Patrick kissed him back and then sent him to bed with a smile and a promise, and oh, fuck.

David is so incredibly not ready for this.

“Here you go!” Twyla pushes a pair of to-go cups across the counter and into David’s hands. “This is the tea,” she adds, tapping the lid of the one on the left. “It’s a new blend—tell Patrick to let me know what he thinks!”

“I—will definitely do that.” David takes a deep breath and stands up. It’s fine. He’s an adult; they’re both adults. David can go over to the store and face Patrick and everything will be _fine_.

“David?” He turns around, halfway to the door, and Twyla holds up the cups. “Your drinks?”

“...yeah, thanks.”

The walk across the street is somehow ever shorter than usual. Entirely too soon, David is pushing open the door to the store and stepping inside. It’s fine, everything is fine, he’s taking deep breaths and looking around, totally casually, just checking to see if Patrick is—

“Okay, well, just let me look at my calendar real quick—”

—Patrick is on the phone. David tries not to sag visibly in relief.

“No, the third won’t work,” Patrick is saying. “What about the seventh?” He mouths a silent _thank you_ as David slides the cup across the counter to him, making a thoughtful noise and frowning at the computer as he takes a sip. “Hmm, okay—can you do the twelfth?” He grabs a scrap of paper and jots down a few words, then shoves the note over to David. 

_July 12th - visit w. Heather (cheese lady) - poss. exclusivity???!_

David is nodding before he’s even finished reading, despite the way it makes his head pound. He’s been trying to nail Heather-the-cheese-lady down on an exclusive contract since before the ink was dry on his business license, but she’s been cagey. If Patrick has her ready to meet, that’s a massive win for the store.

“Okay, it looks like that will work for us,” Patrick says. “Thanks so much—we’re really looking forward to meeting with you.” He pauses, listening. “Mhmmm. Of course. Okay, sounds good. Take care.” He ends the call and sets his phone down on the counter, then clenches his fists and looks up at the ceiling. “Yes,” he hisses, low and victorious.

“She’s willing to talk about an exclusive contract?” Patrick nods. “Fuck, that’s amazing. _You’re_ amazing.” And he is, too: flushed and triumphant, his eyes gleaming, his head tipped back, confident and capable and ever so slightly smug.

He also has a dark smudge just under the hinge of his jaw, like a bruise or a—

David’s entire body flushes hot with a vicious mix of embarrassment and arousal. Like a bruise, yeah, or like a _hickey_ , like maybe Patrick was making out with somebody last night—somebody who was too drunk to keep his goddamn teeth to himself.

“David?”

“You have, uh.” David gestures vaguely at the side of his neck. “Sorry.”

“I have…” Patrick trails his hand up his neck, mirroring David’s gesture. 

“Yeah, uh, sorry.” David’s phone vibrates and he thumbs it off without looking at it, unable to look away from that patch of tender skin. 

“I—oh,” Patrick says, staring at David, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

“I guess I was—” _a sloppy drunk mess? a disaster? a mistake?_ “—a little overenthusiastic last night.” David winces. “Sorry?” His phone buzzes again.

“It’s fine?” Patrick shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he repeats more certainly, “I just—I didn’t realize, that’s all.”

“Mm.” Suddenly all of David’s tentative optimism is gone, replaced by the creeping certainty that Patrick is regretting this. It makes sense, really. Patrick probably spent the whole night trying to figure out a way to let David down gently, and that’s—it’s—

David scrapes in a breath, staring past Patrick’s shoulder at the wall. That’s Patrick’s prerogative. David’s not going to be an asshole about it.

“David, are you okay?” Patrick’s hand is like a brand on his arm and David twitches violently, stepping away. “David?” Patrick frowns. “Your phone—is everything okay?”

“Um.” Abruptly, whatever his family is texting him about feels easier to deal with than this conversation. David pulls the phone out of his pocket and looks down at it.

He has to read the message a few times. At first, it doesn’t make sense at all, and then it does, and oh, _fuck_. 

“David?”

David shoves the phone into Patrick’s hands. “Can you just—can you read that for me? Really quickly?” He closes his eyes and takes a completely unhelpful deep breath. “Because I feel like maybe I’m having a break with reality here, and it would really help if you could just read that message for me.”

“Um, okay,” Patrick says, taking the phone. “Uh, it’s from your dad?” David nods, and Patrick continues. “And it says, _Dear David, please come to the motel at your earliest convenience, your sister is…_ ” Patrick pauses, and David squeezes his eyes closed, hoping the message will say something else when Patrick finishes it. 

It doesn’t.

“ _...pregnant, we may need you to sell the store. Sincerely, Johnny Rose._ Um.” There’s the soft sound of fingers on a touchscreen. “And then there’s a message from your mom, but it’s mostly emoji?” The phone buzzes again and David flinches. “A few messages from your mom, actually.”

“Yeah.” David’s throat is dry. “Yeah, she texts like that, don’t worry about it.” He takes another breath, trying to get air into his lungs. _Sell the store, sell the store, sell the store._ “And before you ask, yes, my dad signs all of his text messages.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. He inhales like he’s going to say something else, then lets out a huff of air. When he touches David’s wrist, it’s an electric shock echoing through David’s body. David shivers, but Patrick’s just handing his phone back, folding David’s fingers around it gently.

“David.” David blinks his eyes open and immediately has to look away from Patrick’s face, the tension in his jaw, the concern in his eyes. “David, it’s going to be okay,” Patrick says, which is so completely ridiculous that David has to laugh.

“I’m sorry, have you _met_ my sister?” David raises his eyebrows at Patrick, who stares levelly back.

“I have, yeah,” Patrick says. “I also have a _little_ bit of firsthand experience with unexpected pregnancies,” he adds with a hint of a smile.

“I—oh,” David says. “I. Huh.” He considers that for a moment, then shakes his head. “Yeah, but this is _Alexis_ we’re talking about.”

“And?”

“And she’s a mess!” David rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same,” he says, needing Patrick to understand the difference. “You’re a mature, functional adult.”

“ _Now_ , sure,” Patrick says. “When Rachel got pregnant, though...” He shakes his head. “I’m just saying, it’s not the end of the world. And, I mean.” There’s an evaluating sort of pause. “There’s always abortion.” David blinks at him, startled, and Patrick spreads his hands. “It wasn’t the right choice for Rachel, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an option for Alexis.”

“Ugh,” David says. “No, you’re right, I’m just—” He shrugs. “Today has been kind of a lot, sorry.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m not selling the store, though.”

“Of course you’re not,” Patrick says, like there was never any doubt. “Frankly, I don’t have the money to buy you out right now, and I don’t know who else would.” He raises his eyebrows at David, the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.

“Um, excuse you,” David says, startled into laughing. “Are you saying that this place doesn’t have mass appeal?”

“Well, David,” Patrick says, “it’s a very specific store.” He rests his hand on David’s shoulder and squeezes. “Why don’t you go back to the motel and talk to your sister?”

David groans. “That is literally the _last_ thing I want to do,” he says, “but you’re right, I know you’re right.” He slides the phone back into his pocket, then ducks into the back room to get his bag. “I’ll be back…” How long will this take, though? How much time should he budget for this crisis?

“You’ll be back when you get back,” Patrick says. “Don’t worry about it, David, seriously.” He leans in and hugs David, quick and tight; it takes everything David has left not to collapse and just let himself be held. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I hope you’re right.” David rubs his forehead, already dreading it. “Ugh, this is going to suck.” 

“Imagine how Alexis must feel,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling.

***

Alexis isn’t pregnant. David makes his dad say it twice, then makes Alexis say it, then collapses on the bed with his hands over his face. He’s still _incredibly_ fucking hungover.

“Ugh, _Da_ vid,” she says. “Stop being such a thoroughbred racehorse about this.” She perches on the edge of the bed next to him. “It’s not _always_ about you, you know.”

“Yes, but,” David uncovers his face enough to glare at her. “In this particular case, since you actually _aren’t_ pregnant, I kind of think it is about me, a little.” Alexis makes a dismissive noise. “Alexis, Dad wanted me to _sell the store._ ”

Alexis waves him off. “He wouldn’t have done it, don’t be stupid.” She rolls her eyes. “There’s no way Patrick has the money to buy you out yet, and nobody else would want it.”

“Excuse _you!_ ”

“It’s just basic business sense, David,” she says. “You have a solid customer base, but your brand recognition just isn’t very good yet.”

Which—David sits up and looks at Alexis, who’s looking down at her manicure. “That doesn’t sound completely idiotic,” he tells her. “Also, stop checking your nails, you know they’re perfect.” He did them for her last week; of _course_ they’re perfect.

“Whatever.” Alexis tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you noticed, David, but I’m, like, basically a girl boss in the making?”

“Yeah, sure.” David rolls his eyes. “Because Gwyneth and Oprah totally got their start at Elmdale College.” He pauses, thinking. “When do you start classes, anyway?”

“Ugh, David!” Alexis pouts at him. “I registered for classes _today_ , thank you _so much_ for remembering this important milestone in my life journey.”

“Um, you forgot my _birthday_ ,” he points out, but she ignores him, which is pretty much exactly what he expected. “Anyway, how was it?” Alexis doesn’t say anything, still fiddling with her thumbnail like she doesn’t care about her cuticles at all; David slaps her hands apart. “Alexis?”

“It was fine,” she says, and then sighs explosively. “I mean, it was sad and crappy and looked nothing like their stupid brochure, but it’s fine, I can take all of my classes online, it’s whatever.”

“I—what?” David blinks hard. “Did you go to the main campus, or the building on Green Street? Because that one is grim, I will grant you.” It’s not the _worst_ college building David’s been in—NYU had some real deathtraps—but it’s not exactly inspiring either.

Alexis makes a face. “That _is_ the main campus, David.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“ _Yeah_.” She tosses her hair again. “But like I said, it’s totally fine! I’m just taking all of my classes online which is honestly, like, _way_ easier anyway? So really this is a total win for me.”

“Okay.” David watches her fuss with the hem of her dress. They’ve spent so much time apart, and some days he can’t read her at all, but sometimes he feels like he understands Alexis better than he understands himself. She _wants_ , so desperately and so deeply, and she covers it with glitz and glitter and a dismissive wave of her hand, but David _knows_ her, and she’s low-key crushed right now.

Alexis won’t thank him for pointing it out, though, so David shrugs and asks her what courses she’s registered for. She brightens immediately, rummaging in her purse and bringing out a notebook.

“Okay, so I have Computer and Information Literacy, which is going to be super easy, and Principles of Marketing, same, and Psych I, and Public Speaking—”

“—didn’t you say you’re taking these classes online?” David frowns. “How can you do a public speaking class online?”

“Um, I don’t know, David,” Alexis says, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Maybe we’ll FaceTime.” She shakes her head and looks down at the notebook. “And then I have Fundamentals of Nutrition, for my science credit.”

“I—” David wants to make fun of her, he honestly does, but he’s also pretty sure he took a class on the Big Bang for his science credit, more or less entirely because he thought the name was funny. “Those sound like good classes.”

“ _Obviously_.” Alexis brushes an invisible speck of lint off of her skirt, then turns to give David a long, evaluating look. “So what were you and Patrick up to last night?” She raises an impeccable eyebrow. “Because you were, like, _super_ trashed when you came back.”

“I was actually hanging out with Rachel,” David says. It’s not a _lie_ , exactly, and the whole thing with Patrick feels entirely too fresh for David to want to lay it out under Alexis’ assessing stare. “She wanted my help redesigning the clinic space.” 

“Um, _wow_ , David,” Alexis says. “I know that you’re, like, basically the world’s biggest himbo, but that’s a _lot_.”

“Go jump off a bridge,” David tells her, “and anyway, it’s not like that at all.” 

“I’m just saying that it’s, like, majorly selfish of you, is all,” Alexis says. “Like, you’ve already got Patrick basically locked down, and now you’re putting the moves on Rachel?” She shakes her head. “ _Not_ your best look, David.”

“I told you, it’s not _like_ that,” David says again. He desperately wants to ask her about the ‘locked down’ comment, but that’s a whole Pandora’s Box full of nope. Besides, there’s something in Alexis’ eyes, something soft and scared behind all of her bravado, and David finds himself wanting to draw it out. He tilts his head. “Since when are you even interested in women, anyway?”

“Ugh, _David_!” Alexis gives an affronted little shimmy. “Not everything is about sex, okay? _God_.”

“Sorry, I got confused when you called me a _himbo_.” David rolls his eyes. “Besides, Rachel’s seeing someone.”

“Um, yeah, I _know_ ,” Alexis says. “I’ve walked in on her and Stevie like, five times this _week._ ”

“You have?” David’s not surprised that Rachel and Stevie can’t keep their hands off of each other, but he’s more than a little surprised that this is the first time he’s hearing anything about it. Alexis has many talents—accessorizing, haggling, evasive driving—but keeping a secret has not, historically, been one of them.

“Yeah, Stevie was, like, completely adorable about it? And basically threatened to kill me if I told anyone ever.”

“Doing a great job with that one, I see.”

“You don’t count, I know she tells you everything.” Alexis grins, bright and artificial. “Anyway, it was super cute, _love_ that new relaysh energy for her.”

“Okay, so.” David closes his eyes and rubs at the bridge of his nose. His head is killing him. “You’re not jealous of Stevie and Rachel being together, you’re…” He raises his eyebrows at her, prompting.

“I’m _fine_ , David, ugh,” Alexis says. “Just because you and Stevie are, like, stupidly in love with your stupid cute townies doesn’t mean that everybody else has to be, okay?” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, who am I even going to date around here?”

And abruptly David gets it. Alexis doesn’t have any _friends_ in Schitt’s Creek, not really. She had Ted, for a while, but now she doesn’t; she hangs out with Twyla sometimes, but they’re not close. She gets along fine with Stevie, with Patrick, but they’re not _hers_. Now that David thinks about it, he wonders if Alexis has _ever_ actually had a close friend: somebody she trusted to stick with her through all of the bullshit, somebody she didn’t have to try so hard around. She had boyfriends by the dozens, of course, and she had girls she hung around with, but did Alexis ever have any real _friends?_

David didn’t, after all.

“Alexis—” He wants to do something ridiculous—to hug her, to tell her that he likes her, to run his hands over her hair and hold her close and tell her that it’s okay not to know what the fuck you’re doing, that sometimes people like you even more when you’re honest about how much of a fuckup you are—but he knows she won’t appreciate it. “You can come help redo the clinic, if you want,” he says instead.

“I don’t know, David,” she says. “I’ve got a _lot_ of work to do for my degree.” She sounds like she means it, but David is back on familiar ground now.

“Okay, or don’t, whatever.” He shrugs. “Rachel’s got a good eye, and Patrick’s actually coming along pretty well, so I don’t think we’ll really need you.”

“Um, excuse me, has either of _them_ ever won a reality home decorating show while posing as the fiancée of a Latvian crime boss?” Alexis sniffs dismissively. “Have Rachel text me the deets and I’ll be there.”

“Sure, fine,” David says. Now that the muscles in his neck are beginning to unknot, the hangover feels even worse. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and pulls up his messages, tapping over to his starred contacts to bring up Patrick’s name.

 **crisis averted** , he types. **alexis isn’t pregnant.**

Patrick’s response comes almost instantly.

**Glad to hear it. See you soon?**

David types **yes** , then stops and stares at his phone. Deletes it, slowly, then types it again and stares at it some more. He should go in, he _wants_ to go in...but he feels like last week’s leftover pizza, greasy and rubbery. The thought of trying to face Patrick while he’s like this, of trying to have an actual adult conversation about the store—much less about last night—is basically horrifying. 

David bites his lip. He _should_ go in.

Before he can make himself hit ‘send’, his phone vibrates in his grasp: another message from Patrick.

**Or you could take a few hours, catch up on your sleep. Drinking with Rachel requires extensive preparation and I don’t think you hydrated properly.**

David really, really didn’t.

 **i could use a little more sleep** , he sends back, **if you’re sure you don’t mind?**

 **Get some rest, David.** Again, Patrick’s reply is almost instantaneous, like he was waiting for David to text, staring at his phone with his heart in his throat. **The store is pretty quiet anyway.**

 **uggggh don’t REMIND me** , David sends back.

**I have some ideas about that, actually.**

**???**

**They’ll keep. I want you to be able to give them your full consideration.**

**well that’s not encouraging** , David sends, because it isn’t, then follows it up with, **but seriously, thanks, i’ll be back in later today, i owe you**.

**Not a problem at all.**

“David?” Somehow Alexis is still sitting on the end of his bed. David gives her his best withering glare, but it’s not particularly effective. Must be the hangover. “I’m just saying, David, if you’re making _that face_ when you text Rachel, it’s probably _not_ a good sign for either of your relationships.”

“Fuck you,” David says reflexively. “Anyway, I’m not texting Rachel, I’m texting Patrick.”

“David!” Alexis smacks him on the shoulder. “You said you’d text Rachel!”

“Um, _did_ I say that?” He pulls up his conversation with Rachel anyway, typing out **btw my sister wants to join us for the renovations, text her at 212.883.9174**. “There, I texted her, can you fuck _off_ now?”

“Awww, David, it’s such a shame that you’re too old and feeble to hold your alcohol,” Alexis simpers. She must be in a better mood, though, because she turns off the lights as she swans out of the room. David pulls his sweater off, folds it, and puts it on the chest at the end of his bed. He’s asleep almost before his head touches the pillow.

***

“David.” There’s a hand on David’s ankle, shaking it gently. David kicks at it.

“Fuck _off_ , Alexis,” he says, rolling over and pressing his face into the pillow. “I texted Rachel, okay? Leave me _alone_.”

“David.” That’s not Alexis’ voice, though. “David, it’s me.”

David cracks an eye open and there he is: Patrick Brewer, sitting on the edge of David’s bed and smiling at him, open and fond and overwhelming.

“...hi,” David says, blinking. “Um.”

“I brought you French toast from the café,” Patrick says, gesturing at a white takeout box on the nightstand. “Also, we should talk.”

“Okay, yes,” David says, flailing himself upright and grabbing for the box. “Talking, definitely, but this first.” Twyla’s French toast is somehow both crispy and soggy; it’s also deeply, profoundly satisfying. “Did you also by any chance bring me a—yes, thank you,” he says, accepting the plastic fork Patrick hands him. “God, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Happy to help,” Patrick says, smiling, and then sits quietly as David completely demolishes three pieces of French toast. 

For a while, everything is carbs and grease and blessed silence, but eventually David has to either put the box aside or commit to licking it clean. He chooses the former, not without difficulty, and sets the box back on the nightstand, wiping his fingers clean on the flimsy paper napkin Patrick hands him.

“So,” he says, once the silence becomes unbearable. “Talking.”

“Talking,” Patrick agrees. “Would you rather start with last night, or with my plans for getting more people into the store?”

David would honestly rather start with a shot of whiskey or a Valium, but neither one seems forthcoming. Instead, he bites his lip and says, “Ah—last night, I guess.” Patrick nods encouragingly. “And, um, to start with, I guess I should apologize for being a drunk mess and, um.” He gestures at Patrick’s neck, at the bruise lurking above the collar of Patrick’s carefully-ironed blue shirt. “For that.”

“I mean, it _is_ wildly unprofessional,” Patrick says. “But it’s not like we were at work, so.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind.” 

“Oh,” David says, watching a dull red flush climb up the back of Patrick’s neck. “Um, I didn’t—really?”

Patrick bites his lip and glances away. “Yeah, I—definitely don’t mind. As a general rule.” He swallows and shakes his head, then turns back to David. “Sorry,” he says.

“For what?” David raises one eyebrow. “ _You_ didn’t get drunk and sexually harass someone.”

“No, just.” Patrick sighs. “I’m—honestly kind of terrible at this?” David stares at him blankly, and Patrick sighs. “At, I don’t know. Dating, relationships. That stuff.”

“I—” David is full of questions that range from embarrassing to outright humiliating. “Okay,” he says, rather than ask any of them. Fortunately, Patrick takes his non-response as encouragement.

“Like, if we were in a bar,” Patrick says, “or a club, then I’d—I’d know what to do, I guess.” He gives David a once-over, slow and thorough and so hot that David squirms against the headboard. “I know how to handle a hookup.”

“Fuck,” David says, his voice is unexpectedly soft and breathy. “I mean, um—” He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force images of Patrick _handling him_ out of his mind. “ _Fuck_.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says, but there’s an undercurrent of laughter in his voice. When David opens his eyes, Patrick is still staring at him, eyes serious and dark, teeth pressed into his lower lip.

“No, it’s fine,” David says. “Just, so we’re clear, this is you saying—what, exactly?” He blinks twice, hard. “That you _don’t_ want to hook up with me?”

“No,” Patrick says, gratifyingly quickly. “Or—I don’t _just_ want to hook up with you, I guess.” He laughs a little, shaking his head. “I _like_ you, David,” he says. “God, I like you so much.”

David takes a deep breath. “Well, that’s good,” he says. “Because I—like you too.” It sounds juvenile and ridiculous, but Patrick’s entire face lights up at those words, like he’s been waiting to hear them, like he didn’t know already, like David hasn’t been embarrassingly obvious this entire time.

“Okay,” Patrick says, and lets out a slow, controlled breath. “So that’s, uh. That’s good, obviously.”

“Obviously,” David echoes.

“It’s just—” Patrick pauses, squaring his shoulders like he’s steeling himself. “I don’t really know how to do this part,” he says. “Dating, I mean.”

“...you were _married_ ,” David says blankly. “For, like, a _while_.”

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, and we started dating when we were thirteen.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m assuming you don’t want your parents to drive us to the movie theater so that we can share a bucket of popcorn and maybe hold hands.” David makes a face, and Patrick shakes his head. “Rachel and I were just kids when we started dating—fuck, we were pretty much still kids when she got pregnant.”

“So what you’re saying,” David says, putting it all together, “is that you’ve never had a—” He swallows hard. “A—romantic relationship—as an adult.”

“Basically, yeah.” Patrick drops his head and stares at his hands, folding his fingers together. “I want to make this work,” he says quietly. “I just don’t really know...how.”

“Well.” David takes a breath, then reaches out and takes one of Patrick’s hands in his. “I wouldn’t exactly consider myself a relationship expert, but I’m happy to do what I can to help.” He squeezes Patrick’s hand, and Patrick squeezes back, and they sit like that for a long moment, silent and warm and hopeful.

“There’s also Jamie,” Patrick says, eventually. “I—I can’t let this hurt her, David.” He swallows hard. “I need to not do that.”

“That’s fair,” David says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. It is, honestly. David Rose is nobody’s first choice for a parental figure, and it’s not unreasonable for Patrick to have reservations. “She’s a great kid.”

“She really is.” Patrick smiles quietly. “And I just—I don’t want her to get hurt because of my choices.”

“Yeah.” David nods. “Yeah, I get that.” He bites his lip. “So that leaves us—where, exactly?” He takes a breath, lets it out slow and almost steady. “I can—if you need to take some time, I can handle the store.”

“No,” Patrick says, “fuck, no, that’s not what I want at all.” They’re still holding hands, sweaty and awkward, and Patrick’s grip tightens. “I want to make this work, I just.” He shakes his head. “I guess I just need to—be careful.”

“Careful,” David repeats, nodding. “I can do careful.” He hasn’t been given that many opportunities to be careful, historically, but that’s just happenstance. He _can_ be careful.

For Patrick, for this, David can be as careful as he needs to.

“So you probably—” _have to leave_ , he means to say, but Patrick moves closer and the words die on his tongue. “Um.”

“Is this okay?” Patrick brushes the backs of his fingers down David’s cheek, a slow delicate touch that sends fire through David’s body. “David, is this—can I—” He trails his hand down David’s neck and leans in slowly, like he thinks David’s going to back away.

“Yes,” David says, holding perfectly still. “Yes, Patrick, _yes_ —” 

It’s not much of a kiss, really, just the slightest brush of Patrick’s mouth over David’s. It’s barely anything at all, and yet David doesn’t move, can hardly breathe, all of his attention on the press of Patrick’s fingers against his neck, the gentle slide of Patrick’s lips against his. Patrick kisses like David is something delicate, something precious, something deserving of this kind of care and tenderness. David wants to scream, wants to bite, wants to melt under Patrick’s hands; he wants to be a million miles away and he wants this to go on forever.

Patrick pulls back, a moment or twenty minutes later. David blinks his eyes open to focus on Patrick’s face.

“Is that okay?” Patrick’s frowning, intent and earnest, and David has to swallow twice before he can get any words out in the face of that look.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, it’s—very okay.”

“Good,” Patrick says, and leans back in.

They kiss like that for a while, sweet and gentle and agonizing and perfect. Then David tries to adjust the angle, his elbow gives out on him, and abruptly he’s flat on his back on the bed with Patrick sprawled on top of him, their legs pretzeled together awkwardly.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, but Patrick just shifts up the bed, pressing David down against the mattress.

“I’m good,” Patrick says with a quicksilver smirk. “I’m really, really good.”

The next kiss starts out gentle and quickly turns dirty; the one after that starts out dirty and ends up absolutely _filthy_. There’s something about the position—pinned down, spreading his legs to let Patrick settle between them—that seems to kick everything up a notch. David doesn’t mean to grind up against Patrick, but once he’s done it once, he has to do it again, thrusting up against the delicious pressure of Patrick above him, against him. Patrick returns the favor, and before long they’re rocking together, sweaty and awkward and urgent. Patrick’s teeth are pressed against David’s shoulder, pushing the collar of his shirt out of the way. The shirt is Valentino, and David should probably be annoyed, but instead he’s got a leg wrapped around Patrick’s hips and both hands on Patrick’s back, pulling him closer, closer.

Then Patrick’s phone rings.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Patrick says, his breath puffing explosively against David’s neck. The skin feels tender, oversensitized where Patrick bit it, damp and chilly in the sudden gust of air. David shivers, feeling every inch of their bodies pressed together, luxuriating in the weight of Patrick against him. “Fuck, sorry, let me just—” And then that weight is gone, Patrick scrambling in his pocket and rolling off to one side to sit up.

“Wait, careful—” The bed isn’t really wide enough for them to lie side by side. David only just manages to catch Patrick’s shoulder before he falls off.

“Thanks.” Patrick shoots David a small, warm smile, and for a second it looks like he’s going to lean back in. Then his phone buzzes in his hand and he sighs, taps his thumb against the screen, and lifts it to his ear.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, his voice even and easy. “What’s up?” _Jamie_ , he mouths to David, as if it weren’t obvious. “You having a good time at Olivia’s?” He listens attentively, his head tilted. “Well, did you ask her mom? What did she say?” Another pause, and then Patrick laughs. “Fair enough. Okay, that sounds fine to me. Can you put Olivia’s mom on the phone for a minute?” He glances at David, then quickly away, chewing on his lower lip. “Kathy, hi,” he says. “Just wanted to check that this was okay with you.” David can hear Kathy’s voice over the phone, bright and amused. Patrick laughs again. “Sounds great. Does six still work for pickup?” Pause. “Mmhmm.” Pause. “Okay, great.” Pause. “Okay, see you then.” 

Patrick ends the call and lets his hands fall to his lap, the phone cradled loosely between them. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, which is frankly agonizing, but his knee presses warm and solid against David’s leg.

“So apparently Olivia is sleeping over at our house tonight,” Patrick says. “Something about them working on a comic book together; I didn’t catch the details.”

“Oh,” David says. “Will she bring the carnivorous plant, do you think?” It’s a weak joke, but Patrick laughs, shaking his head.

“God, I hope not,” he says. Finally, _finally_ , he looks at David, and the look is—it’s _everything_ , gentle and direct and nervous and serious. “I do need to go grocery shopping, though,” he adds. “For people food, not plant food.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” Patrick smiles like David’s said something funny, and then abruptly he’s leaning in to kiss David, slow and firm and very nearly chaste.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, David,” he says, standing.

“Bright and early,” David says. “Except, actually, no, neither of those.” They share another long moment just staring at each other, Patrick standing, David half propped-up on the bed. Patrick’s mouth is doing something helplessly fond, and David can feel the back of his neck turning a dull red. 

It’s intolerable; it’s amazing.

“Tomorrow,” Patrick says, finally, too soon. He gives a little decisive nod, turns away from David, and walks out the door. The motel’s soundproofing is garbage, so David can hear Patrick’s footsteps receding down the walkway. He hears a car door open and shut, hears the engine start, hears the car reverse and then turn out of the parking lot, the low rumble fading into silence.

David collapses slowly back to the bed, his heart racing. He pulls his pillow over his face and lets himself take a few minutes to shriek incoherently into the distressingly low thread count of the pillowcase.

When he pulls the pillow away, his mother is standing over him, because of _course_. That’s exactly what this day needs: Moira Rose.

“Oh my god, do you _mind?_ ” 

“Daaaa-vid,” his mother says, perching on the end of the bed. “I was wondering—Jocelyn’s little asbestos _soirée_ is coming up next week-end, and I haven’t yet managed to pin down my number.” 

David groans, contemplating pulling the pillow back and just leaving it there forever. His mother ignores him completely.

“Now, I was thinking about the Imelda Marcos piece, but I’m worried that it might be a little too on the nose,” she says, “what with Gwen’s sister’s little problem and all.”

David doesn’t know Gwen’s sister—he barely knows who _Gwen_ is—and he doesn’t want to be a part of this conversation. Nevertheless, he sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to face his mother.

“Okay, well, what are the other options?”

Maybe helping her deal with Jocelyn’s insane asbestos fair will help distract him from—things.

***

Asbestos Fest—apparently it’s counter-, not pro-, which is vaguely reassuring— _does_ keep David busy. Moira changes her mind approximately once every twenty minutes, and needs to discuss her new choice extensively every single time. It’s exhausting, as everything involving Moira Rose inevitably is.

All David wants to do is find a quiet moment with Patrick, but that turns out to be completely impossible. If David isn’t answering a frantic text from his mother, he’s helping out with the sudden rush of customers.

“Yes, if by ‘customers’ you mean ‘juvenile delinquents’,” Patrick says. “They’re not _buying_ anything, David.”

“Listen,” David tells him, “I created this store to be an oasis of culture in the desert that is Schitt’s Creek, and I’m not going to kick out a bunch of budding aesthetes simply because they don’t currently have the funds to match their taste level.”

“You just like them because they complimented your sweater,” Patrick points out, which is rude, uncalled for, and, okay, 100% true. Still, Patrick doesn’t make David kick them out, which is nice.

David gets to enjoy the compliments for exactly four days before even this weak consolation is ripped from his grasp.

“Why are you putting that in your backpack?” Jamie says loudly. “Did you pay for it already?” She turns around and glances at Patrick, who’s looking up from the register in confused suspicion. “Dad, did he pay for the moisturizer already?”

Which is how they find out that David’s teenage fan club has been shoplifting skincare products methodically for the past week and a half.

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Patrick says.

“Which is good,” David informs him, “because you definitely _didn’t._ ” Patrick rolls his eyes and ducks into the stockroom, and David turns to Jamie. “Thank you, seriously.”

“People shouldn’t _steal_ ,” she says, frowning ferociously. “You and Dad work really hard on the store.”

“Well, with you around, nobody will stand a chance.” The doorbell rings and David whirls around, bracing himself for the teens to be back, but it’s just Alexis. “What are you _doing_ here?” 

She tosses her hair at him. “Um, _David_ , Patrick is helping me with a project for school, I _told_ you,” she says, which is a complete and total lie. “Anyway, _this_ is super cute, love this for you,” she says, gesturing at David and Jamie. “What are you two up to?”

“Jamie just helped us catch some shoplifters,” David says, giving in to the impulse to rest a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. She’s still trembling a little, tiny and furious, but she leans against his side. “Isn’t that great?”

“That is _so cool_ ,” Alexis says, turning to Jamie with wide, appreciative eyes. David knows for a fact that she’s shoplifted in at least a dozen major cities, but he’ll give her credit, she sells the line. “How’d you do it?”

Jamie looks up at David. “Well—”

“It’s your story,” he tells her. “I’m just the humble beneficiary of your eagle eye.” He squeezes her shoulder gently. “Go on, tell Alexis; I’m going to go check on your dad.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, nodding seriously. She turns to Alexis. “Well, they’ve been coming in a _lot_ , but they never really _bought_ anything except for gum,” she says.

David steps back and listens for a minute, but he knows the story already, so after a moment he gives Jamie another pat on the shoulder and ducks away into the stockroom.

Patrick’s there, leaning back against one of the shelves with his eyes shut. His face looks drained, drawn.

“Hey,” David says softly. “You okay? I can give you a minute.”

“Sorry, yeah, no.” Patrick blinks his eyes open, shakes his head roughly. “I just wanted to check the stuff they were taking against our inventory. I _thought_ the shrinkage numbers seemed high, but—”

“Hey.” David leans in and rests his hand gently on Patrick’s shoulder. “Hey. Does that have to happen right this instant?”

“I—” Patrick sighs. “No, probably not.” He’s still tense, but he lets David reel him in, leans tentatively against David’s side, his breathing gradually falling into rhythm with David’s. “Sorry,” he says eventually. “I knew there was something off with the numbers, but I thought it was just the crate of moisturizer that Roland knocked off the table last week.” He takes a breath, then lets it out slowly, but David doesn’t buy it.

“And?” Patrick glances up at him, then away, flushing slightly.

“And I just—I don’t like that Jamie had to be the one to catch them, I guess.” He shakes his head, his hair brushing against David’s jaw. “That’s—it shouldn’t be her _job_ , to do that.”

“Okay,” David says, resting his chin gently against the crown of Patrick’s head. “But, counterpoint, she’s an incredibly sharp and observant kid with a keen sense of right and wrong, so, you know.” He shrugs. “I’m not an expert, but I wouldn’t exactly call that a parenting failure, here.” 

Patrick laughs, bright and startled, and twists around to look up at David. His eyes are wide and dark, darting down to David’s mouth and then back up as the smile fades from his face, replaced with something hot and intent. Patrick licks his lips, and he’s standing so close, tucked under David’s arm, the two of them pressed together from shoulder to knee, and David’s abruptly aware that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since—since—

He can’t finish that thought, because Patrick is leaning up to press their mouths together, slow and careful and inevitable. His lips are soft, slightly chapped, achingly gentle as he nudges David back against the shelves. Patrick kisses like he’s got all the time in the world, like they can just stay back here in the stockroom and kiss like this forever, and _God_ , what David wouldn’t give to do just that.

“Hi,” David says, when Patrick draws back just enough for him to get the words out.

“Hi,” Patrick murmurs back. His breath ghosts over David’s mouth, sensitive on damp skin, and David bites his lip to hold off a full-body shiver. “Sorry, I—we probably shouldn’t do this at work.” Patrick darts a glance towards the curtain, Jamie’s piping voice, Alexis’ serious-listening noises.

“Yeah,” David says, and braces himself to take his hands down from Patrick’s shoulders.

“I want to, though,” Patrick says, leaning in to whisper it against David’s jaw, a confession, a prayer. “Fuck, David, I want to _so much_.”

“Fuck.”

David knows what the right move is. He should disengage, slow it down; he should gentle Patrick with sweet closed-mouth kisses until they’re both recovered enough to be in public again. He should be mature, should be responsible, should show Patrick that he’s able to put off short-term pleasure in the name of professionalism.

“Me too,” he says instead. He rolls his hips against Patrick’s. “I want it, come on, Patrick—”

Patrick groans, a low, rough sound that buzzes against David’s throat, intimate and overwhelming. His mouth presses wetly against David’s pulse point with the faintest scrape of teeth; David shivers all the way down to his toes, spreading his legs and sinking down against the shelves to equalize the height difference a little more. He’s clinging to Patrick’s shoulders now, his grip probably too tight, too much, but he can’t make himself let go. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, pinning David in place and rocking against him insistently. It should feel juvenile and embarrassing: fully clothed dry-humping under the glare of fluorescent bulbs, complete with family members in the next room.

It doesn’t, though. It feels like nothing else David’s ever done, like nothing he’s ever dared to daydream about. It feels like sex in a movie: electric, effortless, impossible.

Eventually, Patrick pulls back, his mouth gleaming in the dim light of the stockroom. His hands are at David’s hips, the tip of one thumb just barely brushing skin under the hem of David’s sweater, a chaste gesture completely at odds with the slow, dirty rhythm of his hips.

“Hi,” Patrick says again, his voice low and private.

“Hi,” David says, once he can find the air to breathe. “Um—”

“ _Hi_ ,” Alexis says from the doorway. “Not that I’m not, like, happy for you both or whatever? But there are actual customers in the store?”

“Fuck off and die,” David tells her, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. 

“Um, excuse me, I think you mean, ‘ _thank you so much for coming back to check on us_ ,’” Alexis retorts, “since I _could_ have let Jamie do it.”

“Fuck.” Patrick drops his forehead to David’s shoulder. “Thanks, Alexis,” he says. “We’ll be right out.”

Alexis tosses her hair and disappears back through the curtain. David can hear her saying something to Jamie, but he doesn’t pay attention, all of his focus bent on unclasping his fingers from Patrick’s shoulders, trying to keep his breathing steady and even. There’s nothing more unflattering than the kind of self-recriminating apology spiral David can feel building at the back of his throat, but it’s fine. He’s just going to breathe through it, find his balance, and apologize a normal amount.

“I’m sorry,” he says, still holding Patrick’s shoulders too tightly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t—” He swallows, shakes his head, avoids Patrick’s gaze. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.” Unprofessional, unparental, inappropriate in every conceivable way. Patrick wasn’t wrong to have reservations about getting into a relationship with David.

“David.” Patrick’s fingers are gentle against David’s chin, sliding scratchily up to cradle his jaw. “David, I don’t—” He bites his lip, hesitating, and there’s a long pause while they stare at each other in silence. “I don’t regret any of that,” Patrick says, abruptly. “I mean, if you do, that’s obviously fine—”

“I don’t,” David says, because the only thing more agonizing than this conversation is the idea of Patrick thinking that David regrets anything they’ve done together. “I really don’t,” he repeats softly.

“Well.” There’s a smile spreading across Patrick’s face, something sweet and open and affectionate. David tries to glance away, but Patrick taps gently at the hinge of his jaw until he has to look back. “If you don’t regret it, and I don’t regret it, then we’re good, right?”

“Right,” David says doubtfully.

Patrick’s smile turns into a grin, conspiratorial, a little dirty. “We probably shouldn’t do that _too_ much, though,” he says, then adds, “during business hours, at least.” Before David can react to that, Patrick’s leaning in again, his eyes gleaming. He kisses David, quick and thorough, then pulls back and dusts off his hands before ducking out through the curtain.

***

After that, Asbestos Fest is nothing, even if David does have to rescue his mother from her over-ambitious plans by way of The Number.

“You did a really good job,” Jamie tells him afterwards, leaning sleepily against Patrick’s side. David wants to roll his eyes on instinct, but she’s almost unbearably sincere, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Your hair is silly, but you’re a good singer.”

“You are,” Patrick says. _He_ is definitely making fun of David, because he’s an asshole. David wants to say something cutting almost as much as he wants to drag Patrick backstage and suck his dick.

“Thank you,” David says to Jamie, instead of doing anything else. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Dad’s a good singer too,” she says around a yawn. “ _And_ he plays the guitar.”

“ _Really._ ” David raises his eyebrows at Patrick, who just grins unapologetically. “Well that’s certainly...something.”

“You should sing for David, dad,” Jamie says. David contemplates that idea for roughly half of a second, then shoves it to the very back of the metaphorical closet of his mind, to be dealt with approximately never.

“Some other time, bug,” Patrick says, like he’s been thinking about this, like this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Right now, though, we should go home. Got to get up early tomorrow, remember?”

“To paint mom’s office!” Jamie beams up at David. “You’re coming, right? You’re going to help us?”

“I am,” David says. “I’ll be there.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Oh my god, David, what are you _wearing_?”

“First of all, fuck you,” David says as a matter of principle. “Second of all, what are _you_ wearing?”

“They’re coveralls, David. _Obviously_.” Alexis gestures to her outfit with a little Vanna White twirl of her wrist. It’s short and tight and brilliantly white, and bears about as much resemblance to painters’ coveralls as the motel does to a five-star luxury hotel in Dubai. “I mean, I got them tailored, clearly.” She cocks her hip and taps a finger against her chin. “But seriously, you’re not wearing that, are you? Those pants are Rick Owens.”

“Obviously _not_.” David rolls his eyes. “This is just for the walk over.”

“David.” Alexis gives him her ‘pitying-the-uncultured’ look. As usual, it makes David want to throttle her. “You know Jamie’s going to be there, right? So you can’t just paint naked like you did when you were in art school.”

“Rachel has something for me to wear while we paint,” David says with tremendous patience. “Also, fuck _you_ , that was _one time_ , and I was under a lot of pressure.”

“Sure, David.” Alexis checks her hair in the mirror again; she’s got it tucked up under a bandana that is, admittedly, very cute. “Are we ready to go?”

It’s a ridiculously beautiful day, sunny with just enough of a breeze to keep the temperature bearable, and the good people of Schitt’s Creek are taking advantage of the weather. David and Alexis pass people doing yard work, families with children on bicycles, and a truly ludicrous number of joggers. For once, the town looks welcoming and almost cute instead of the usual blend of sad, strange, and embarrassing. 

The walk passes in easy silence, and before long they’re standing outside the clinic. The door is propped open by one end of the horrible couch, which isn’t any less ugly in natural light. Alexis looks at it and then back at David, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. David shakes his head.

“Knock knock.” Alexis taps on the doorframe and leans into the clinic itself. “Hello?”

“Hey!” Rachel pops up from behind the counter, beaming. “Thanks for coming to help!” She’s wearing a pair of ragged denim cutoffs and an oversized men’s work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It’s already stained in several places and one of the shoulder seams is coming undone, but she makes it look artistic and free-spirited rather than sloppy. It’s offensively cute. She looks like she’s stepped off of the set of an HGTV show. “Stevie, they’re here!”

Stevie emerges from the back room and gives David a nod. She’s dressed exactly like she always is, in ragged jeans and a flannel shirt. It’s as good as anything for painting, David supposes.

“I’m gonna finish taping off the break room,” Stevie says to nobody in particular, and is gone before any of them can respond.

“Patrick and Jamie should be here soon,” Rachel continues. “He just texted.” She tilts her head at David. “I picked up the paint last night after work. Want to see?” 

David doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just steps forward to follow Rachel back behind the counter. The green looks perfect, but the blue—

“Is this the Aviary Blue, or the Iceberg?” David twirls the stirring stick around the can, leaning in to get a better look. 

“It’s actually the Pigeon Blue,” Rachel says. “I know, I know, we didn’t talk about it, but I looked at it in the store and I think it’s a good compromise.”

“Hmm,” David says. It’s fine, probably, and anyway he won’t have to look at it very much. “Okay, but did you actually compare it to a sample of the Aviary Blue, or are you just going based on what you saw in the can, because you know the final color is going to be different—”

“Oh, _Patrick_ ,” Alexis says loudly from the waiting room. “And Jamie! You’re here!”

“Sounds like we’re getting here just in time.” Patrick says, stepping into the clinic. “And we brought—oh, okay, hi, Alexis.” He submits to a round of cheek-kisses with a bemused smile. “That’s...new.”

“We brought coffee!” Jamie holds up a carrier tray of to-go cups like a pageant queen with her trophy, or possibly like a Viking warrior with the spoils of her invasion. “Mom, this is yours!”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Rachel steps back around the counter to take the proffered cup. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“And this is for David,” Jamie continues, turning around and holding the tray out to him. He picks the cup up and takes a tentative sip: caramel macchiato, cocoa powder, two sweeteners. When he opens his eyes, Patrick is watching him with a smile that’s very nearly a smirk.

“Did we get it right?”

“You know you did,” David says. His voice is entirely too fond, and Alexis’ eyebrows shoot up—that’s going to be something to deal with, fuck—but he can’t regret it.

“And this is Dad’s, and this is for you, Alexis,” Jamie says, passing out more cups. “We weren’t sure what you wanted, but Twyla said you might like this tea.”

“Mmm, yum yum for me,” Alexis says, accepting the cup and pretending to take a sip. David’s probably the only one who can tell she’s faking it, though; Patrick and Rachel don’t seem like they’ve had enough practice dodging roofies at skeezy warehouse parties.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to try it.” Jamie looks up at Alexis with a serious expression. “I don’t think it smells very good either.”

“Jamie!” Rachel puts a hand over her eyes, but Patrick shakes his head.

“It honestly smells terrible, Rachel,” he says. “We had to roll the windows down.” He takes the cup from Alexis and holds it out for Rachel to take a sniff.

“Eurgh, okay, yeah, that’s vile.” Rachel snatches the cup and drops it in the trash. “Sorry, Alexis. We’ve got a coffee pot in the break room, if you want.”

“Or she could have Stevie’s coffee,” Jamie suggests, “if Stevie’s not coming.” There’s something off about the way she says it, a false note in the tone of her voice. David sips his coffee and leans against the wall, trying to figure out if he’s imagining things.

“No, she’s here,” Rachel says. “Stevie! There’s coffee!” Stevie slouches back into the room.

Jamie’s eyes narrow, her face suddenly sharp and thoughtful. She glances around and seems to come to some sort of a decision, steeling herself and walking towards the break room—

—and then she stumbles, her arms flailing. The coffee tray goes flying, the lid coming off in midair, and the coffee splatters all over Stevie’s shirt.

“Oh no!” Jamie’s eyes are wide and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Stevie! I was going to give you the coffee, but I tripped, and now it’s all over you!”

“It’s okay.” Stevie shrugs and starts to unbutton her flannel. “It’s almost laundry day anyway.”

“How do you tell the difference?” David almost drops his own coffee trying to dodge the dripping overshirt Stevie throws at him. “That wasn’t a _request_ , Stevie.”

“That reminds me, David,” Rachel says. “I have something for you to wear, if you want.”

“Thank you, yes,” David says, and follows her into the back room.

***

It’s scrubs.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” Rachel says. “That’s a nice sweater, though.”

It’s a _really_ nice sweater, actually. Neil Barrett, fall 2017, mohair and silk. David looks at the scrubs again.

“I thought scrubs were blue,” he says eventually. “Or green.”

Rachel shrugs. “Mine are, but I don’t think they’d fit you,” she says. “These belonged to my assistant back in Calgary.” She lifts up a corner of hot pink fabric and shakes it out, revealing a shirt that could easily fit two of David, maybe three. “He played hockey.” 

“Mhmm,” David says. Beneath the shirt is a pair of pants, mint green and printed with— “Are those tiny ducks?” He narrows his eyes. “With little hockey sticks?”

Rachel nods, smiling, and pats David on the shoulder. “I’ll let you get changed,” she says. 

David hesitates for a bit, but ultimately strips out of his clothes and folds them carefully in his bag, shrugging into the ludicrously oversized scrubs. The cuffs won’t stay rolled up no matter how he tries, flopping awkwardly around his feet, and the neckline keeps sagging towards his shoulder, but what else is he going to do? After some consideration, he unties his shoes and tucks them under the bag. Sock feet in a public place are incorrect, but so is interior paint on a pair of Cole Haan sneakers.

Now he just has to go back out there and deal with the comments. Rachel probably won’t say much, since she’s the one who gave him the scrubs in the first place. That’s good, but that still leaves everybody else. Stevie is brutally honest, with a sixth sense for things that will make David squirm. Alexis will know exactly how off-trend this look is, and she’ll make sure everybody else knows, too. Jamie’s a wild card: she might not notice at all, but if she does, there’s no telling what she’ll have to say. And Patrick—

David takes a deep breath. Patrick watched _The Number_. If Patrick still wants to date David after that, a pair of scrubs is probably not going to be a dealbreaker, even if they’re really, really not David’s color. David takes another breath, checks his hair in the tiny mirror over the sink, and pushes the door open.

“...what happened to _you?_ ”

“Um, excuse me, I’m pretty sure that’s my line,” David says. He squeezes his eyes shut and blinks them open, but Stevie is still there, still staring at him, still smeared liberally with paint. It’s in her _hair._ “Seriously, what the fuck?”

“There was an incident,” Stevie says. “My paint roller fell apart? Don’t worry, I’m just going to shove my head under the faucet, it’s fine.” She knocks her shoulder against him as she pushes into the break room. David jerks back instinctively before realizing that he’s not wearing anything that won’t be improved by a liberal coating of _Desert Sage_. 

Stevle slaps the tap on and bends over the sink, scrubbing awkwardly at the side of her head.

“Do you want—oh my god, _stop_ , just let me do it, here.” The water is an icy torrent; David leans past Stevie to adjust the temperature and grab the bottle of dish soap. “It hasn’t had time to dry, so this will probably work, but if not, olive oil should do the trick.”

“I’ve always used WD-40,” Stevie says, but she lets David comb gently through her hair, teasing the paint out.

“Which says, honestly, just so much about your general aesthetic,” David tells her. “Turn your head, please?”

“Bold words from a man in those pajamas,” Stevie says, but obediently tilts her head so that David can scrub gently along her temple.

“Okay, these are clearly a loan,” David says, “which I _know_ you know, since you’ve borrowed approximately seventy percent of my actual wardrobe.”

“As per the terms of our agreement, where I generously let you store your clothes at my place of business and you let me wear whatever I want.”

“And let me just say, thank you _so much_ for not wearing any of my clothes today,” David concedes, running his hands through Stevie’s hair one last time. The paint is coming out, fortunately. “There, you should be good.” 

“Thanks.” Stevie straightens up, her hair dripping but clean, and wraps the towel David hands her around her head. The motion draws David’s attention to the sleeve of her shirt, still smeared with paint.

“Oh, your shirt,” he says. “Hang on, I’ll ask Rachel if she has another set of scrubs.” They’re both pretty small; Stevie will probably fit in Rachel’s scrubs. Lucky her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stevie says, shrugging. “This is my messy chores shirt.”

David narrows his eyes. “Didn’t you wear that to work last week?”

Stevie glances down at the shirt and shrugs, unconcerned. “Never know when things might get messy at the motel.”

“And didn’t you wear that when we went out to the Wobbly Elm last month?”

“A lot of ways to be messy, David.” Stevie unwinds the towel and drapes it over the back of the chair. “Ready to go help paint?”

“You’re the worst,” David informs her, but he follows her back into the waiting room.

***

After such a dramatic start, the painting itself is fine.

Patrick raises an eyebrow at David’s scrubs, but doesn’t say anything, just smiles and turns back to painting with smooth, even strokes. David watches him for a completely reasonable amount of time, then picks up a paintbrush and goes to work.

They fall into an easy rhythm. Patrick, Stevie, and Jamie take rollers and tackle the main space of the wall, while Rachel and David handle the detail work around the trim. David had figured that Alexis would be mostly useless, but she’s up on a ladder, doing the edges near the ceiling with a preternaturally steady hand.

It’s...fun. The windows let in enough of a breeze that the paint smell isn’t overwhelming, and with so many of them working they make steady progress. Rachel has a bluetooth speaker and a playlist that seems to be made up mostly of late-90s pop and indie hits, and they alternate between laughing at it and singing along. Rachel turns out to know all of the words to _Wannabe_ , which isn’t actually surprising; Patrick delivers an over-the-top rendition of _I Want It That Way_ that David finds disgustingly compelling.

“The Backstreet Boys, Patrick?” he asks, once the song is over and everyone has finished applauding. “Really?”

Patrick shrugs, unrepentant. “Gotta make sure Jamie knows her classics.” Next to him, Jamie rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

It’s easy, the kind of lighthearted fun that David would have sworn didn’t actually happen outside of Lifetime movies. 

“Hey, David, can you pass me my—shit!”

David’s already turning towards Stevie, her water bottle in hand, and he sees it all. Stevie staggers, arms windmilling wildly, before toppling over and hitting the floor with a loud thud. There’s a long moment where nothing moves, all of them staring at Stevie’s motionless body sprawled across the hard tile in helpless, horrified silence, until—

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Stevie groans, rolling onto her side. “Ow.”

“Babe, are you okay?” Rachel leans over Stevie, helping her sit back up. “Did you hit your head?” Her hands are gentle and steady on Stevie’s shoulders and her voice is soothingly professional, but her shoulders are tight, her face pale.

“I’m fine,” Stevie says, sounding more embarrassed than anything else. “I guess my shoelaces got caught under the ladder somehow?” She looks down at her Converse as if they’ve personally betrayed her, beyond the obvious crime of being more hole than shoe. “Sorry, fuck. I’m such a disaster today.”

“I wouldn’t say _disaster_ ,” Patrick says with a weak, relieved laugh.

“Um, she’s spilled paint on herself like four times, used the wrong paint can twice, broken a paint roller, and now this,” Alexis says. “I mean, I love you, Stevie, but you’re a mess,” she concludes, blowing Stevie an air kiss. Stevie rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, probably because she can’t.

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” Stevie makes a noncommittal noise and Rachel sighs. “You want to lie down on the cot in the back room?”

David listens to the conversation with half an ear—Stevie protests, but she’s obviously going to give in—and watches Jamie out of the corner of his eye. She looks pale and startled, more than seems warranted for someone who’s barely acknowledged Stevie’s existence all day. As David watches, Jamie swallows hard, mutters something about the bathroom, and rushes out of the room. David glances back at Stevie, but she’s standing up with assistance from Rachel and Patrick.

David follows Jamie.

The bathroom is empty. On a hunch, David goes past the examination rooms and around the corner. There’s a brick propping the back door open—a brick that wasn’t there earlier.

David sets his shoulder gently against the door, easing his way out into the back alley. Jamie is pressed against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her skinny body, shivering despite the warm weather. She looks up at David with wide, teary eyes, seeming more resigned than surprised: the face of someone who’s expecting to get caught.

“I didn’t want to hurt her, David,” she says. “I didn’t, I _promise!_ ” Her lower lip trembles and she blinks ferociously.

“Okay.” David takes a deep breath. “I’m sure Stevie will be really glad to know that.” He inches closer to Jamie and leans against the wall next to her. “But what _did_ you want to do?” Jamie mutters her answer into her shoulder and David leans down to hear better. “Sorry, what?”

“I wanted her to trip.” Jamie’s voice is small and miserable. “Because it would be funny, and people would laugh at her, and maybe if everybody laughed at her she’d go away.” 

“So you, what—you put the ladder on her shoelaces?” 

Jamie nods, sniffling. “I didn’t want her to get _really_ hurt, though.”

“Right, okay, good,” David says, stalling for time. Where the _fuck_ is Patrick? “I’m glad to hear that.” He shifts his weight, trying to find a position that isn’t absolutely brutal on his back. 

Jamie takes it as an invitation to fling herself against David and collapse into his side, sobbing silently. 

David shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. This is clearly a job for someone who understands children a hell of a lot better than he does, someone who knows how to be comforting, someone who knows how to _parent_. David is laughably, terrifyingly underqualified for this conversation.

But he’s here. David takes a deep breath.

“I—okay, um, can we sit down, maybe?” Sitting down feels like good first step. The alley is disgusting, but he’s still wearing the scrubs; he’ll have to burn his socks later, that’s all. “Hey, it’s okay, I believe you.” He eases them both down to the ground.

Jamie cries against his ribs for long enough that David’s ass starts to go numb against the concrete. David lets her. What the fuck else is he going to do? Eventually, though, she catches her breath and sniffs in a determined sort of way, straightening up until David can see her face.

“Feel better?” he asks, for lack of anything better to say.

“I guess?” Jamie makes a face. “Dad always says it’s okay to cry, but I just feel gross.”

“Well, your dad’s a smart guy,” David says, “but to be honest, I’m with you on this one.” He rolls his eyes theatrically and Jamie gives a watery giggle. “Now, do you want to talk about...whatever it is that you’ve got going on right now?” 

Jamie bites her lip and glances away. “I didn’t want her to get _hurt_ ,” she repeats mulishly.

“Right, you said,” David agrees. “But you wanted her to leave?” Jamie nods. “And you wanted that because…”

“Because she’s stupid,” Jamie says.

“I mean, I’m not going to argue with that.” David shrugs. “But if everybody who was stupid had to leave town, there wouldn’t be anybody left in Schitt’s Creek, which would be a real problem for the store.” 

“Yeah,” Jamie says, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Hey,” David says. Jamie doesn’t look at him, staring at her shoes, and David pulls her against his side. She’s tiny under his arm, all awkward angles, her elbow digging into his hip. David winces preemptively, but asks the question. “Is this about your mom?” Jamie doesn’t say anything, but somehow becomes even spikier, curling in on herself. “Because she and Stevie are, uh,” _fucking like bunnies_ , “spending time together?”

“I know that they’re dating,” Jamie says, managing to roll her eyes so clearly that David can hear it without even being able to see her face. “I’m not a _baby_.”

“Well, good,” David says. “I’m terrible with babies.”

“I don’t care if Mom dates people,” Jamie continues, ignoring him. “I just don’t want her dating somebody who’s _stupid_.”

“And Stevie is stupid.”

“She’s _so_ stupid,” Jamie grumbles. “She doesn’t go anywhere fun and she doesn’t talk about anything interesting, because she’s boring and—and _stupid._ ”

It’s hard for David to parse this description of Stevie, who is, yes, occasionally incredibly stupid but is probably the most interesting person in Schitt’s Creek. But then he thinks of Stevie when she’s nervous: the tight, uncertain smile, the monotone, the one-sentence answers, the total lack of eye contact. He thinks of Stevie at the Wobbly Elm, four beers in, chin propped unsteadily on her hand, asking, _‘What the fuck do you even say to a kid, anyways?_ ’

“You know,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can, “I didn’t like Stevie at first either. No, really,” he says, when Jamie gives him a look. “I thought she was making fun of me all the time.”

“And then you got to know her and found out she wasn’t?” Jamie can’t quite manage to raise a single eyebrow, but her ‘unimpressed with your bullshit’ stare is very good nonetheless. “Sure, David.”

“No, she was totally making fun of me,” David says. “But when I got to know her, I didn’t mind it as much.” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s up to you, though, really,” he says. “You don’t have to like Stevie if you don’t want to.” 

“I don’t?” Jamie frowns. “But she’s your friend.” She wrinkles her nose. “She’s like, your _only_ friend.”

“Harsh, but true,” David agrees. “But that doesn’t mean she has to be _your_ friend.” He lets Jamie mull that over, watches her chew on her lip. “I’ll still like you just as much if you and Stevie never get along,” he says, gently. “And I’m pretty sure your mom will, too.” Jamie’s eyes shoot open, red-rimmed and startled, and her face flushes. She opens her mouth to start talking, but David cuts her off. “I mean, I’m not saying your mom is going to break up with Stevie for you, because that’s probably not happening. But she’s not going to,” he waves his free hand, “I don’t know, love you any less just because you and Stevie aren’t besties.”

“I mean, it’s basically _exactly_ like when I was dating Rob Pattinson,” Alexis says from behind them, startling David so badly that he bashes his head against the wall. “And everybody said that Kirsten Stewart was going to flip out and, I don’t know, slash my tires or whatever, but she was actually totally chill about it?” Alexis tosses her hair. “And then we went to her place in Malibu and did, like, a _ton_ of E—”

“Alexis!”

“ _David!_ ” Alexis rolls her eyes. “Anyway, my point is, when you talk to people, sometimes they surprise you.” She drags her feet through the grit of the alley. “Also, a) are you two going to help any more, or are you done? And if you’re done, then, b) can I also be done?”

“We’re coming back in.” David struggles to his feet, trying to avoid contact with the alley as much as possible. “God, you’re the worst.” He turns back to Jamie. “You need a minute?”

“No.” Jamie takes David’s hand and pulls herself up. “No, I’m going to go talk to my mom.” She looks up at him for a long moment, then flings her arms around his waist and hugs him. “Thanks, David,” she mutters against his sternum, then pulls away, ducking around Alexis and back into the clinic.

David has pins and needles in his thighs and gravel on the palms of his hands. He feels uncomfortably sweaty, like he’s just run a marathon or done one of those awful American Ninja Warrior courses that Stevie loves to watch when she’s stoned out of her mind. Alexis is staring at him, her mouth doing something uncomfortably indulgent.

“What,” David snaps, more out of habit than anything else; it comes out weak and querulous.

“Love this for you,” Alexis says. She steps forward to tug at the shoulders of his oversized scrubs. “ _Love_ it.”

“Go play in traffic.” David makes sure to bump his shoulder against hers as he pushes past. Her trilled “ _Bye, David!_ ” echoes in his ears as he steps back into the clinic.

It feels like stepping into a cave, the inside of the clinic cool and dark after the sun outside. David closes his eyes and drags his hands down his face, trying to force the adrenaline out of his body by sheer willpower. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “Fucking— _fuck._ ”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, “I think you’ve pretty much captured the essence of the situation.” David can’t even muster the energy to be startled, just drops his hands and cracks his eyes open enough to see Patrick smiling wryly at him.

“I—” David sags back against the wall. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Most of it, I think,” Patrick says. “I came out this way when I realized that you and Jamie were both gone. Rachel was listening from the bathroom; there’s a window in there that doesn’t close all the way.” He gestures down the hallway towards Rachel’s office. “They’re talking now.”

“That’s...good?”

“In the long run, yeah,” Patrick agrees. “I don’t really envy Rachel that conversation, but it sounds like they need to have it.”

David narrows his eyes at Patrick. “You seem very blasé for someone whose daughter almost murdered her mother’s girlfriend,” he says. 

“I mean, she wasn’t _trying_ to murder Stevie, so that’s, what, manslaughter?” Patrick shrugs. “I think we’re okay.”

“I’d set higher standards than ‘not actively homicidal’, myself, but I guess I’m not a parent,” David says. “Speaking of which, sorry if I said anything that—” he spreads his hands helplessly “—that made any of that worse, or anything.” 

Patrick raises a dubious eyebrow. “I mean, I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but it sounded good to me.” He tilts his head. “Unless you used my daughter’s moment of emotional vulnerability to convince her to try out for the football team, I think we’re fine.” 

“Excuse _you_.” David bristles indignantly, lost for words, and Patrick laughs.

“You’re fine, David,” he says. “You’re better than fine.” He steps closer, staring at David. His eyes are wide in the dim light of the back hallway. There’s something about that stare, some sudden intensity that has David pinned in place as Patrick moves closer.

David swallows. “We should probably—go back,” he says, unsteady, heat prickling along the back of his neck. “Help with the painting. Check on Stevie.”

“True.” Patrick stops right in front of David, their faces inches apart. He leans in to brace his hand on the wall over David’s shoulder. “But, you know, I think Rachel and Jamie need a moment right now, and Stevie was resting, so.” He shrugs. “We could also...not do that.”

“Oh?” David’s voice is soft and breathy, too open, too _much_. They shouldn’t start anything here; David knows they shouldn’t, not with Rachel and Jamie just a hallway and a mediocre plywood door away—

—but Patrick is standing so close, his breath gusting gently against David’s chin. David is not, ultimately, that strong.

Patrick presses into David’s space, sure of his welcome, and kisses him. He still has one hand braced over David’s shoulder and he rests the other against David’s hip, pulling their bodies together. It’s slow and thorough, easy, like picking up a conversation they’ve had a thousand times: a press of lips answered by a flash of tongue, bitten-off noises and quiet sighs traded back and forth. David jumps when Patrick bites gently at his lip, lets his hands run down the muscle of Patrick’s back and swallows Patrick’s low groan.

“As much as I like this,” he says, when they pause for breath, “I feel like I should point out that we’ve already been interrupted by a family member once this week, which is honestly more than enough for me, so—”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees, nodding. He draws back slightly but doesn’t let go of David, rubbing his thumb back and forth just under the hem of the awful scrubs. It’s somehow intensely erotic, that inch of skin abruptly sensitized and aching under Patrick’s touch, frustrating and distracting and horribly, awfully good. David shivers, caught by that slight pressure and the heavy weight of Patrick’s stare, frozen in place.

“You realize that you’re going to have to move first, right?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, and David can feel himself flushing unflatteringly. “I’m not saying I _want_ that! I just think that maybe it would be a good idea to—um—” Patrick licks his lips, a quick flash of pink tongue, and David loses the rest of his sentence. 

“You were saying?” Patrick licks his lip again, slowly and deliberately. He smirks up at David in a way that suggests filthy, sweaty, wonderful things. “David?”

“Fuck,” David says, and reels Patrick back in for another kiss.

***

Fortunately, it’s Stevie who finds them. Her expression suggests that David’s going to be hearing about this for a while, but that’s still better than any of the other options.

“Alexis left, I think,” she says. “Rachel and Jamie are going to go and get sandwiches, but I think I’m going to head out.”

“Your head okay?” Patrick steps back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His other hand rests on David’s hip, casual and proprietary. David watches Stevie notice it and reads a lifetime of teasing in the quirk of her eyebrows, but somehow can’t bring himself to move away.

“I’m fine,” Stevie says. “Just a little headachey.” She turns to David. “If you drive me, I’ll let you borrow my car until tomorrow.”

David weighs the teasing he’ll get from Stevie against the prospect of walking back to the motel and dealing with his family. He nods.

“Let me just go get changed.” It takes a phenomenal effort, but he convinces his hands to let go of the back of Patrick’s shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” Patrick says. He leans in to brush a gentle kiss over David’s lips. “Good luck.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “Unless you need help getting out of those scrubs?”

“Nope, you’re going to clean up the tarps,” Stevie says. “Since I’m injured and whatever.”

“Oh, okay,” Patrick says, smiling. “Is that what I’m doing.” He looks David up and down. His eyes are dark, his mouth wet and red, and David feels like he could melt right into the floor. “Guess you’re on your own, David.” With a final smirk, Patrick disappears through the door into the waiting room, leaving David alone with Stevie.

Stevie, who’s looking at David with a look that conveys amusement, support, and a healthy dose of friendly mockery all at once.

“Go get changed,” she says, before David can figure out what the fuck to say to her. “We can talk later.” She tips her head toward the break room and David goes, stripping hastily out of the scrubs and pulling on his clothes. The socks are a loss, covered in grit and grime from the alley. David drops them in the trash can and toes on his shoes. Shoes without socks is disgusting, but he’ll only have to get to Stevie’s place.

Stevie’s waiting for him when he steps into the hall, leaning up against the wall and squinting at her phone.

“Here.” She tosses David the keys and smirks as he bobbles them. “Let’s go.”

David is bracing himself, but Stevie doesn’t say anything as he starts the car and pulls out onto the street. She doesn’t say anything as they pull through town, driving past the store and the diner, past Town Hall and Bob’s shitty garage. She doesn’t say anything, but she says it so loudly that David can feel his eardrums pop.

“It’s just all still _really_ new,” David says abruptly, yanking the car over to the side of the road and killing the engine. “Like, barely even a week? AndI wanted to text you but I had _no_ idea what to say, and then we thought Alexis was pregnant, and then it was the fucking asbestos thing, and now it’s—” he gestures helplessly. “Now it’s today.”

“I’m not mad at you, David,” Stevie says with a serious frown. “I’m just…” She shakes her head. “I’m just disappointed.” 

“I’m—” _sorry_ , David starts to say, but stops, thinking. He narrows his eyes and stares at Stevie. “Are you _fucking_ with me right now?”

Stevie sighs deeply. “That hurts, David,” she says. “I thought you valued our friendship more than that.” The corner of her mouth twitches, though: her one tell. When she starts cackling, he’s sure of it.

“Okay, you’re fucking with me.” David starts the car and pulls back onto the road with a jerk. Stevie collapses against the window and yelps in pain. “Fuck you,” David tells her. “I hope you _do_ have a concussion, you fucking jackass.”

“Okay, okay,” Stevie says, still laughing her ridiculous honking laugh. “I’m sorry, it was too good to resist.” 

“I don’t even know why I’m friends with you,” David tells her.

“Me either,” Stevie says, shrugging. “But it might have something to do with the bottle of whiskey in my apartment.” She tilts her head at David, her dark hair swinging down to brush the sides of her face. “Want to sit on my bed and drink and gossip for the rest of the day?”

“ _God_ , yes,” David says, and pushes his foot down on the gas pedal.

***

“So, okay.” Stevie leans back against the headboard of her bed and crosses her ankles. “Let me get this straight.” She holds up one finger. “You went over to the clinic to talk to Rachel about redecorating, but then spent the afternoon getting wine drunk and gossiping about what Patrick was like in high school.”

“I mean, we talked about other things too,” David says, “but yeah.”

“Shush.” Stevie takes a sip of her whiskey and holds up a second finger. “Sometime that evening, Patrick turned up to haul your drunk asses home.” Another finger. “At which point you kissed him.”

“I—yeah,” David says. His memories of that evening are hazy and a little patchy, but that part is crisp and vivid in his mind: pinned up against the side of the car, the warmth of Patrick’s mouth, the slow, deliberate rhythm of their hips together. “Yeah, we kissed.”

“Mm- _hmm_ ,” Stevie says, raising an eyebrow like she can see the scene playing out in David’s mind. “So then the next day you blew off work—”

“—to deal with my sister possibly being _pregnant,_ ” David puts in. “Extenuating circumstances.”

Stevie rolls her eyes and waves his words away. “Doesn’t count if she wasn’t actually pregnant,” she tells him. “You blew off work to sleep off your hangover. And instead of being annoyed about this, Patrick came over and you made out.”

“He also brought me French toast,” David says. “And we talked about—this.”

“Like, you talked?” Stevie raises her eyebrows. “Or you _talked?_ ” 

David blinks. “We...talked,” he says helplessly.

“About?”

“About stuff!” David sighs. “About, I don’t know. What we want from the relationship. Stuff like that.”

“Oh, damn.” Stevie’s eyes go wide. “You _talked_.” She refills her glass and holds the bottle of whiskey out to David, who takes the refill gratefully. He clinks his glass to Stevie’s in a wordless toast. “That’s, like. Shockingly adult for you,” Stevie says eventually.

“I know I should be offended, but you’re not wrong,” David tells her. “He’s really honest about stuff.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what happens when you date an actual adult,” Stevie agrees.

“Is Rachel like that?” Stevie gives him a dirty look. “Oh, I didn’t realize we were only talking about _my_ drama tonight,” he says. “ _So_ sorry to intrude upon your privacy.”

“No, it’s fine,” Stevie says. “Rachel’s great.” She makes a face. “I mean, yeah, she wants to talk about feelings a _lot_ , which is obviously weird for me, but _she’s_ great.” Stevie looks down into her glass, blushing slightly, and bites back the beginnings of an embarrassingly sappy grin. “She’s really—great.”

“Well, good.” David almost leaves it at that, but something about Stevie’s phrasing sticks out, and he hasn’t had enough whiskey to forget about the afternoon. He tilts his head, staring at her. “So everything is great, except for how her daughter…” 

“...completely hates me? Yeah,” Stevie agrees, pulling her knees up to her chin. “That part is less great.”

“Oh, good, you noticed,” David says, relieved. “I mean, not _good_ , but—I’m glad that I don’t have to be the one to tell you.”

Stevie gives him a dry look. “The part where she almost murdered me today was kind of a hint, yeah.”

“Okay, but, to be fair, she didn’t actually want to hurt you,” David says. “She was really clear on that part.”

“Glad to hear it.” Stevie sips her whiskey. “She definitely does hate me, though.”

“I—yeah,” David says. “Which makes no sense, honestly.” Stevie makes a face, shaking her head. “What?”

“This isn’t something you have to fix, David.” Stevie rolls her eyes. “Not everybody likes me; it’s fine.” She doesn’t even sound sad about it, just resigned.

“Okay.” David pauses, thinking. He sips his whiskey. “But you know that _I_ like you, right?”

“Mmm, but do you _like_ me the way that you _like_ Patrick?” Stevie pokes at his shoulder, snickering, but David grabs her hand.

“Stevie, I like you,” he says. “Patrick is—that’s whatever, but you’re my _friend_.” He grimaces into his glass. “I think you’re my best friend.”

“You _think?_ ”

“Well, I can’t know for sure,” David tells her, “um, because I’m realizing now that I don’t think I’ve ever really had one.”

“Okay, well. If we’re being _honest_ ,” Stevie says, making a face like she finds the idea physically painful, “I don’t think I’ve ever had one either.”

They stare at each other in silence, trading dubious looks. David feels like there’s a balloon inflating behind his sternum, pressure and lightness building and threatening to crack him open. It’s deeply uncomfortable, but in a good way, like a hot oil treatment, like a deep-tissue massage.

There’s a smile hiding at the corner of Stevie’s mouth, like she’s feeling the same way, like she’s exactly as surprised by it as David is.

“This would be a really sweet moment,” David says, once his lungs feel like they belong to him again. “If what we had just admitted to each other wasn’t so sad.”

“Very true.” Stevie lifts her glass up in another toast. “To best friends,” she says, and David clinks his glass against hers.

“To best friends.” They drink, and David sets his glass on her nightstand. “Now, _as_ your best friend, I feel that I have the right to say this—”

“Oh God.”

“—when I was in your bathroom before, I saw a jar of the face masque we ran out of last week.”

“Hey, I paid for it,” Stevie says. “You were out on a vendor visit, so Patrick made me.”

“Right, no, not the point.” David shakes his head. “The thing is, I was _going_ to buy a jar myself—”

“Buy? Or take?”

“—but when I came back from my trip to McLaren Farms, Patrick told me he’d sold the very last one.” He narrows his eyes. “How much is left, Stevie?”

“Uh.” Stevie chews on her lip. “Most of it?” David stands up and heads for the bathroom, and Stevie wobbles after him. “Hey! David! You can’t just take it!”

“I’m not _taking_ it, Stevie,” he says, retrieving the jar from her medicine cabinet. “We’re going to _use_ it.”

Stevie blinks at him. “We’re going to do face masks in the middle of the day.”

“And drink whiskey,” David says. “And talk about _feelings_.” He holds the jar out to her. “You in?”

Stevie hesitates, then breaks into a brilliant grin. “Of _course_ I’m in.”

***

Things devolve from there, and the day winds down with the two of them sprawled on Stevie’s bed, watching _Clueless_ and cackling into each other’s shoulders. 

“God, you’re a nightmare,” Stevie gasps, choking back laughter at David’s _entirely accurate_ evaluation of Cher Horowitz’s wardrobe choices. “I’m so glad you’re—I’m so fucking glad, David.”

“Yeah, whatever, you know I’m right,” David says. They both know what he really means.

Afterwards, David’s definitely not sober enough to drive. Instead, he walks back to the motel in the cool of the evening, the shadows stretching along the street ahead of him. There are fireflies coming out, bright flashes of green in the air around him as he makes his way along the quiet streets.

Alexis is out when he gets back, the room dark and quiet. David pokes his head through the connecting door and finds his mother alone, lounging on the bed in a silk charmeuse dressing gown with a tattered paperback book in one hand.

“Oh, David, hello,” she says, as if he’s an acquaintance she hasn’t seen in months rather than her literal firstborn son. “How have you _been_ today?”

“Fine, thanks.” David squints at the cover of the book. “ _The Arrogant Count’s...Virginal Mistress_? Really?”

“Oh, David.” Moira flutters her free hand. “I know it’s rather pedestrian for my usual tastes, but I saw it on a shelf at Town Hall and I just _had_ to read it.” She holds the book up so he can get a look at the cover. “You see!?”

“I...no?” Moira brandishes the book at him and David takes it, but closer examination doesn’t change his initial impression of flowing hair, rippling muscles, and heaving bosoms. “Um, what am I supposed to be seeing, exactly?”

“David!” Moira tosses her hair. “I know it’s hardly my usual milieu, but surely you can recognize your own _mother_.”

“Excuse me, _what_?” The author’s name—J.J. LaGrande—is picked out in gold letters just below the title. It isn’t one of his mother’s usual aliases, but the day has been full of surprises. “Did you _write_ this?”

“Oh David, _certainly_ not,” she says, with an absolutely ridiculous tone of offense for someone who’s reading the damn thing. “I modeled for the cover, of course.”

“You…” Once he looks, David can see it, although he immediately wishes he couldn’t. It’s all soft-focus and the hair is extremely eighties, but that’s definitely a mediocre artist’s interpretation of Moira Rose. “Wow,” he says, eventually. “That’s, um.”

“It was back at the very _dawn_ of my career,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “Honestly, I had nearly forgotten all about the whole business!” She takes the book back and smiles fondly down at the cover. “The prose is disastrous, of course, and if the plot were any thinner you could wear it as a very daring negligée, but…” She trails off, tracing the lines of the cover with her fingernail, lingering over the improbably muscular hero. “Even with all of that, there are some rather... _inspiring_...passages.” She looks up at David abruptly. “Did you by any chance see your father on your way in?”

“In the office.” David is already halfway through the door back to his room. “I’m sure he’d love to see you!” he says, closing the door on his mother’s response.

Alexis still isn’t back, so David turns on the shower and waits for the water to warm up. The bathroom steams up around him, thick warm air heavy on his skin as he undresses and folds his clothes. His arms and back are sore from reaching and twisting to paint, and the hot water is a balm on aching muscles. He closes his eyes and thinks about nothing at all, the sweat and dust and tension of the day sloughing off of him.

He’s not planning to jerk off, not consciously, but it’s not exactly a surprise when he reaches down and finds his dick half-hard. And it’s been a day, and he’s got the privacy, and honestly, why the fuck not?

David leans against the wall of the shower and lets himself think about Patrick at the clinic, confident and competent, pushing David against the wall and kissing him breathless and desperate. What else could Patrick do with that strength, that self-assurance? 

Every image that comes to mind is hotter than the one before, a flood of beautifully filthy thoughts. Patrick stripping him naked and pinning him down, their dicks pressed together in a slow, slick grind. Patrick bending him over a table, thrusting between David’s thighs, his hands steady and implacable on David’s hips. Sucking Patrick off, Patrick’s hands in his hair, Patrick’s dick in his mouth, in his throat—

David comes with a sigh, biting his lip and rubbing his thumb gently over the head of his dick, drawing out the pleasure as long as he can. Eventually, though, he’s too sensitive to keep going, shivery aftershocks echoing through his body, and he drops his hand to his side with a long, shaky breath.

He doesn’t feel guilty, exactly. They’re dating, now; it’s not like David’s jerking off about some innocent stranger. Still, there’s something weird about it, some part of David still aching and hollow, unsatisfied even as relaxation eases through his body.

It’s fine, though. They’re going slow, being careful. It’s fine. David shakes himself, spattering water on the tile, and finishes his shower.

The room is still quiet and dark when he steps out of the bathroom, towels around his hips and his hair. David makes his way to the dresser in the half-light and digs out a pair of pajamas. Nobody comes in as he hangs up the towels, or interrupts him while he’s moisturizing, or pokes their head into the room to make fun of his hair while it’s drying. He finishes his entire evening routine in peace and quiet, not even taking advantage of the situation to put on music without it being critiqued.

He doesn’t look at his phone until he’s tucked into bed, curled on his side. He has several texts, the most recent from Rachel: **thanks so much for coming today, and for talking with Jamie - idk what you said but I think it helped.**

**glad to hear it** , David types back. **how’s she doing?** As soon as he hits send, it feels like too much, but Rachel texts back immediately.

**better** , she says, **by which i mean probably not going to try to kill Stevie again??? fingers crossed**

**I mean, it’s Stevie** , David sends back. **sometimes she deserves it.**

**you’re not wrong**

**seriously, though, thanks so much - Jamie’s really lucky to have you around.** There’s a pause, and then a new message arrives: **we all are**.

David can’t think of any response to that, so he taps back to his other messages. There’s a few from Stevie, berating him for taking the rest of the jar of face masque— **bite me** , David sends back—and one text from Patrick.

**Hope you’re having a good night,** it reads. **Thinking of you.** 😏

**I had a very nice evening with Stevie, thank you** , David answers, not letting himself think about it too much. **you?**

**Not bad,** Patrick sends back. **Kind of wish you were here, though.** David spends a moment trying to parse the tone—gloomy? annoyed? nonchalant? _flirty?_ —before shrugging and sending back a single question mark. 

Patrick’s response is almost instant: **I would have liked more time with you today, is all. Ideally without an audience.**

David spares a second to be glad nobody else is around to see the flush in his cheeks or the warm, pleased smile that steals onto his face. **oh? and what would you have done with that time?**

**I’ve got a few ideas** , Patrick sends back. **Unfortunately, you’re not here, so I guess they’ll have to wait.**

**i mean, you could tell me about them now**. David hesitates, biting his lip. **or is sexting not on the table?**

**Is it sexting if you alfalfa**

David squints at his phone. The message doesn’t change, and no explanation seems forthcoming.

**ummm not sure what alfalfa is in this context** , he sends.

Patrick doesn’t respond.

**not sure i really want to know tbh**

Still no answer.

**okay now i’m a little worried??**

**Fuck, sorry,** Patrick finally sends. **Jamie FaceTimed me to say goodnight. The alfalfa was a typo; please forget about it.**

**i can’t forget about the alfalfa, Patrick** , David sends. **there’s no coming back from this.**

**Are you really going to make me say it?**

**I’d prefer that you type it, actually.**

There’s a long pause with nothing, not even an ominous ellipses as Patrick tries to figure out what to say. David has half a second to wonder if he’s pushed too hard, but then Patrick sends back a single word: 

**already.**

**already?**

**Not alfalfa. “Is it sexting if you already…”**

David’s blood is rushing in his ears, his pulse racing, fingers stuttering over the screen of his phone. **I see** , he sends back. **fyi, it’s sexting if you’re texting about sex...and you weren’t the only one.**

The chat bubble appears and disappears a few times and David bites his lip, waiting for Patrick’s response.

**David, are you telling me that you also alfalfa?**

**we’re not doing this** , David tells him. **but yes, i did.** He stares at the phone as the chat bubble blinks in and out a few more times, his body thrumming with anticipation. 

When the phone starts buzzing with an incoming call, he almost drops it on his face. _Patrick Brewer calling_ , it tells him, as if there’s anybody else it could be right now. David sits up in bed and taps the green button, lifting the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” The silence goes on long enough that David looks at the phone in suspicion, but the call is still going. “Patrick?”

“...hi, sorry.” Patrick’s voice is sheepish. “I didn’t really mean to call you.”

“Um, who _did_ you—” David starts indignantly, but Patrick cuts him off.

“No, I meant to—I just—I didn’t—” Patrick’s sigh trails into a low, rueful laugh. “I was just thinking so much about how much I wanted to hear your voice that I didn’t really consider what I was going to say.”

“Well.” David swallows, his throat unexpectedly tight. “That’s sweet enough that I’ll overlook your faux pas, I guess.”

“How generous of you,” Patrick says. David can hear the smile in his voice, something tender and affectionate. “And—just to be clear, so that I don’t repeat myself—my faux pas here was…?”

“Telling me that you didn’t mean to call me, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously,” Patrick says. “I just wanted to make sure that it wasn’t...the alfalfa.”

“No,” David tells him. “No, no, we are not doing this.” 

“This?

“ _Alfalfa_ ,” David says, and shudders with distaste. “This is not going to be a cute little couple-joke that we laugh about together.”

“Are you objecting to cute couple jokes in general, or to alfalfa in particular?” David can picture Patrick’s smirk, sly and teasing; he can also picture about a dozen things he’d like to do with it. “I’m just trying to keep us both on the same page.”

“Both, obviously,” David says. “Couple jokes are tacky and try-hard, and alfalfa is disgusting.”

“Noted.” There’s a pause, and then Patrick continues, slightly tentative. “But you don’t have any...other objections?”

“To phone calls past 9 PM?” David sighs. “It’s not my usual preference, but I’ll allow it, I guess.”

“No, I mean—” Patrick sighs, a staticky rush of air over the phone. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“They do say that if you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it,” David muses. “Although personally I’ve always found that approach rather limiting. I’ve certainly had plenty of excellent sex with people whose names I couldn’t pronounce. Or remember, actually.” Patrick doesn’t respond, and David bites his lip. “Um, sorry, was that—”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says, his voice low. “I mean, me too, honestly, so.” There’s a pause that feels like a shrug. “Fair’s fair.”

“...right,” David says weakly. “The—the bar hookups.” It shouldn’t be hot to think of Patrick Brewer getting his dick sucked by a stranger in some shitty bar, his face flushed, his neat blue button-down untucked, his hands clenched at his sides. Or in someone’s hair, maybe. Patrick seems like he could pull hair, under the right circumstances. 

David knows he shouldn’t, but—“Does it make me a terrible person if I think that’s hot?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says with a choked half-laugh, “but fuck, David, me too.” Patrick makes a noise that goes directly to David’s dick, a stifled, aching groan that sounds like it’s being dragged out of him. 

“You’re doing it, aren’t you,” David says, not so much asking as confirming what he already knows.

“I—yeah,” Patrick murmurs. “Yeah, David, I’m—” Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it out slow and steady, ending on an embarrassed chuckle. “You’d think I hadn’t already gotten off, like, what, half an hour ago?”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” David informs him. “Assuming that you were thinking about me, of course.”

“Assuming that—” Patrick’s laugh is bright and incredulous. “Um, yeah, I was thinking about you,” he says. “I think about you a lot, David.”

“Mmmm.” David switches the phone to his left hand and rolls onto his side, letting his free hand slide under the waistband of his pajamas and rest against his hipbone. “Feel free to tell me more about that.”

“I—” Patrick pauses, then huffs out a breath. “Sorry, I’m bad at this.”

“There’s no—well, no, okay, strike that,” David says. “I was going to say that there’s no way to be bad at phone sex, but then I remembered the Spaghetti Incident of ‘09.”

“...do I want to—”

“You do _not_ want to know,” David says. “But you’re doing fine.” David tilts his head, considering. “What do you think about, then? When you think about me.”

“God, fuck,” Patrick pants. “Everything, anything, I don’t know, I just—” The words come tumbling out of him in a torrent before breaking off as Patrick gasps for air.

“Slow down,” David says, and then, when Patrick doesn’t respond, “Patrick! Slow _down_.” Patrick makes a noise, high and tight and agonized, but his breathing slows again. “Everything okay?” David says, when it sounds like Patrick is a little calmer.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Sorry, I just—there’s so many things I want, and sometimes I feel like—”

“Yeah,” David says, “I know.” He swallows once, hard. “But, you know, we have time.” It rings in his ears as soon as he says it. David has to squeeze his eyes shut and take a deep breath before he can continue. “So, for now, just—what’s one thing? One thing you think about.” Patrick makes a thoughtful noise, but doesn’t say anything, so David pushes. “You have me all to yourself, anything you want, anywhere—where do you want me?”

“In—in my bed.” Patrick says it in a rush, like the words are being pulled out of him. “Fuck, I want you in my _bed_ , David.”

“Mmm, okay,” David says. “It’s a nice bed, I approve.” Patrick stifles a groan and David smiles, digging his nails into the skin of his upper thigh. “Yeah, that’s right, I was in your bed already, wasn’t I?”

“David.” Patrick’s voice is low and hoarse, his breathing speeding back up. “David, did you—”

“—jerk off in your bed? No,” David says. “I thought about it, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, absolutely,” David says. “But this isn’t about what _I’ve_ thought about, is it?” He chews on his lip, thinking. “So I’m naked in your bed—I assume I’m naked?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I want you naked.”

“Naked in your bed,” David repeats, “and you can do whatever you want with me.” Patrick makes a strangled sound. “What do you want, Patrick?”

“I want to spread you out,” Patrick says. “I want you on your stomach, and I want—I want to touch you.”

“I like that,” David says encouragingly. _God_ , he likes that. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Everywhere, fuck.” Patrick’s laugh is high and wild. “Your thighs, David—your _shoulders_ —” He takes an unsteady breath. “And—”

“And?” David stretches, slow and luxuriant, giving some of his nervous energy a place to go. “What else?”

“I want to eat you out.” The words land like hot wax on David’s brain, whiting out all other thought. David squeezes his eyes closed, fighting for control, but Patrick keeps _going_. “I want to—fuck, I want to spread you out and get my tongue in you, I want to hold you down and lick you until you beg for it, I want to make you come, David, I want to—are you—”

“I am, yeah.” David gives in to the urge and wraps his hand around his straining dick. “Fuck, that’s filthy,” he says. “I love it, keep going.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Patrick says, his voice rough. “I want you to pin me down and make me take it, I want your dick in me, I want—” He breaks off, panting. “ _David_.”

“Keep going,” David says, twisting his hand slowly over the head of his dick. “You want me to fuck you, okay. On your back? On your side? Hands and knees?”

“Yes, all of it, yes,” Patrick gasps. “I want—David— _David_ —” He makes a high-pitched noise, almost a whine, and then lets out a long, shuddering breath. “ _Fuck_ , sorry, I didn’t mean to—um.”

“It’s fine.” David surprises himself by actually meaning it. “Honestly, that was pretty hot, so.”

“You’re telling me,” Patrick says. “God, David, that was—” his sentence trails off into a warm, close silence, the two of them breathing unsteadily over the phone at each other.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” David says, once Patrick seems to be calmer. “I’m thinking that I want to suck your dick.” 

“I mean.” Patrick laughs weakly. “I’m not going to say no to that.”

“Mmm, I didn’t think so,” David says. “I want to get you on your back in that nice comfortable bed of yours and I want to suck your dick as slowly as I can, really make you wait for it.”

“So you want to give me a heart attack, is what I’m hearing,” Patrick says. “That’s fun, I like the sound of that.”

“You can put your hands in my hair, if you want,” David says, ignoring the back-talk. “I like that, do you like that?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says quietly. “I’d like that, David.” His voice curls around David’s spine, low and electric. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

“You can pull a little, if you want.” David rolls onto his back and spreads his legs, bringing both hands down to his dick. “I like that, too.” The image is incredible: pinning Patrick against the bed, sucking his dick slow sweet and merciless, Patrick’s hands buried in his hair, keeping David close. “I like to feel it, after,” David says, his hands moving faster. “In my throat, and, mmm, my scalp.”

“You want to feel it?” Patrick’s voice hits like a riptide, deceptively strong, dragging David under. “You want me to fuck your mouth, David? I can pull your hair, if you want. I can put you where I want you and make you take it, come in your mouth and kiss you clean afterwards—”

“Fuck!” It’s so much, it’s too much. David comes, shaking and swearing and gasping, pressing his head back against the pillow and the angular weight of the phone. The orgasm seems to go on forever, endless weightless minutes of pleasure, his hand twisting over his dick, Patrick’s voice warm and heavy in his ear.

“—good, you’re so good, David,” he’s saying. “You’re so hot, fuck, you don’t even understand, I want you so _much_ —”

“I was beginning to get that idea, yeah,” David says. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

“High praise, indeed.” Patrick’s laugh turns into a yawn halfway through.

“I’m going to take that as a response to a long and moderately stressful day, and not a comment on my performance,” David tells him, and then promptly spoils the effect by yawning himself. “Excuse _you_ ,” he says when Patrick starts snickering at him. “Today was a lot for me, okay?”

“Mmm, but was it, though?” Patrick says. “As I recall, Stevie and I did all of the actual moving of furniture.”

“It was a lot _emotionally_ ,” David says. “And aesthetically.”

“Right, of course,” Patrick agrees. “Aesthetic exhaustion, how could I forget.” He’s clearly rolling his eyes, which is probably something David should find annoying.

He doesn’t, but he knows that he should. 

“Well, I should probably let you go, then,” Patrick continues. “Since you’ve had such an exhausting day, and since you’ll be up so early tomorrow for the store.”

“Mmmm, probably,” David agrees, but doesn’t make any move to hang up. He should probably clean up before Alexis gets back, too, but the bed is comfortable and Patrick’s breath is warm and reassuring in his ear.

“Okay,” Patrick says eventually. “As the person who actually _does_ have to get up early, I’m going to hang up now, I think.”

“—ten is early,” David protests belatedly. 

Patrick laughs. “Good night, David,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning is an ordeal. David’s mother is talking up Ted’s new girlfriend, completely oblivious to Alexis’ increasing distress. David tries to intervene, but it’s a lost cause from the beginning, and the whole thing ends with Alexis stomping out in an exasperated, overdrawn huff. David can’t decide whether or not to go after her, but what would he even say? Things are better lately, to be sure, but that doesn’t mean David is confident in his ability to console his sister.

This moment of indecision means that David gets caught in an absolutely  _ interminable _ conversation with Roland Schitt. He’s either encouraging David to try shrooms or asking him for a discount on the hand cream Jocelyn likes. Either way,  _ hard _ pass.

Then David has to walk to work. He’d planned on taking Stevie’s car, but of course not driving Stevie’s car home last night means that her car  _ isn’t at the motel _ . He sends her a text to request that she come by the store to drop it off. She promised him 48 hours of car use, and David plans to collect.

**fuck off i have a JOB** , Stevie sends back.  **also a head injury** .

The resulting argument keeps David distracted all the way up to the front door. All at once, he’s awash in anxiety, drowning in a sudden, cacophonous wave of  _ oh god oh fuck oh shit _ . What if last night was too much for Patrick? What if David pushed too far, too fast? 

After all, Patrick isn’t just the co-owner of Rose Apothecary. He isn’t just David’s... _ something. _ He’s a dad, a  _ parent _ . He has other priorities in his life than phone sex, no matter how improbably good. What if Patrick’s not willing to risk his relationship with his daughter for the sake of physical attraction? What if he spent the rest of the night thinking of a polite way to tell David to fuck off?

David finishes opening the door on momentum alone, steps inside on sheer muscle memory. Patrick is standing at the counter, a small cardboard box open in front of him. He looks up, meets David’s eyes, and promptly knocks the box off the counter, sending tiny metal tins rattling across the floor.

“Fuck!” In a flash, Patrick is around the cash and kneeling down. There’s a flush spreading up the back of his neck, red and vulnerable and lovely. David drops down next to him, close enough that their knees just touch, and watches the flush reach Patrick’s ears.

“Everything okay?”

“No, yeah,” Patrick says. “I was just unpacking these.” He reaches for a tin and the back of his wrist brushes David’s thigh, a gentle, electric pressure, there and then gone. “They’re the mints, you know, from—”

“—Jeanette Hubin, right.” David nods. “Are they any good?”

“Haven’t tried them yet.” Patrick holds the tin out to David. “I was waiting for you.”

“How kind of you.” David doesn’t take the mints, just flips the tin open, cupping Patrick’s hand in his. The mints are irregularly-shaped ovals smaller than David’s fingernail, white with a pleasing sheen to them. David pulls one out and places it on his tongue, closing his eyes to taste it. It’s fresh but not artificial, intense without being overwhelming.

“How is it?” Patrick’s voice is low and a little rough, shivering down David’s spine.

“It’s good.” David pauses to let the mint dissolve delicately in his mouth. When he blinks his eyes open, Patrick is staring at him, blushing dully. 

The sight goes through David in a rush of heat, fierce and possessive.  _ He _ put that look on Patrick’s face. That overwhelmed flush, that hitch in Patrick’s breath: those are because of him. “Do you want one?” 

“I—no.” Patrick gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “No, I have a tea, but—” He blinks twice, swallows, glances away and then back. “Can I—do you mind if—”

David’s already leaning in to meet him. They kiss like that, bent over in the middle of the store, David’s hand still wrapped around Patrick’s. The angle is terrible and David’s back is twinging a warning, but the kiss is sweet and slow and so achingly good that he can’t help melting into it.

“Sorry,” Patrick says, when he finally draws back, looking down at David’s mouth again like he can’t help himself. “We probably shouldn’t do that here.”

“Probably not,” David agrees, licking his lips. Patrick’s breath stutters just a little, just the tiniest pause, and David can see his free hand clenching against his jeans. “I liked it, though,” David says, and licks his lips again, watching for the catch in Patrick’s breathing.

“I—yeah,” Patrick says, “me too.” He’s listing towards David, slow and inevitable, and David presses forward to meet him, only to break away, wincing, before their lips even touch.

“Okay, no, nope, that is not working for me,” he says, rocking back onto his heels and pressing his hands to the small of his back. “Not—this is great,” he says, catching Patrick’s alarmed look, “ _ you’re _ great, just—” He makes a face. “My spine is already suffering enough from the motel beds, so, you know.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick laughs ruefully and shakes himself like he’s waking up from a nap. “Let me just—” He reaches for the last of the mints and drops them back into their cardboard box. “I’ve got it, you’re good,” he says, and David takes the permission with both hands, standing up and stretching until his back pops resentfully.

“Ugh, fuck,” he groans, rolling his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut. “I keep telling Stevie she needs to replace the motel beds, and specifically  _ my _ bed, but apparently it’s ‘not a priority’ and she has ‘other things’ that need her attention.”

“That sounds tough,” Patrick says, his voice suddenly very close. David blinks his eyes open to find Patrick directly in front of him, reaching up to trace a finger down the side of David’s neck. 

“I—”

“For Stevie, I mean,” Patrick adds, smirking. His hand drops to David’s shoulder, his thumb dragging slowly back and forth over David’s collarbone. David is leaning in for another kiss, eyes already fluttering closed, but then the words register in his mind and he rears back, glaring at Patrick.

“Excuse me,” he snaps. “I don’t think that you’re treating my suffering with enough consideration.”

“Oh, are you suffering?” Patrick frowns in badly faked concern. “Do you think you’re going to make it?”

“Mmmm,” David says. “Unclear.” Patrick grins up at him, bright and conspiratorial, and David can’t hold on to the annoyance, can’t do anything but lean in and kiss him again.

One kiss turns into two turns into more, the two of them standing in the middle of the store in broad daylight. Patrick’s hands are warm and insistent on David’s face, the very edge of his thumbnail scraping along David’s stubble. David lets his hands slide down Patrick’s back, down to his hips, looping two fingers through the belt loops of Patrick’s terrible jeans and tugging him close. They kiss like that for long minutes, slow presses of lips and the occasional flash of teeth.

“God, David,” Patrick says when they break apart to breathe. “You’re so—” He shakes his head, swallowing back half a laugh, and leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to the line of David’s jaw.

“You should feel free to elaborate on that thought,” David says. “Ideally at length, possibly in the form of rhymed couplets—or haiku, I’d take a haiku.”

“I’ll get right on that, sure.” Patrick swipes his thumb affectionately along David’s cheek. “But first I thought I might open the cash, if that’s okay with you?”

“I suppose.” David tilts his head, dragging his thoughts back to the store instead of taking a detailed inventory of all of the places he’d like to kiss Patrick. “Oh, did Jeanette send samples of her candles? She said she was going to.”

“Yeah, they’re in the back,” Patrick says. “I didn’t want to put them out until we’d had a chance to discuss them, but assuming that the mints pass muster—”

“The mints are...delicious,” David says, looking at Patrick’s mouth and smirking. “You have my blessing to put them out.” He brushes past Patrick and into the back room, letting his hand brush lingeringly down Patrick’s arm on the way.

The candles are good, the scents distinct without being overpowering. They’re not really a summer product, though—unless Jeanette does any with citronella? But that’s  _ such _ a difficult fragrance profile to work with. David makes a note to order a batch in early fall. Maybe they could do something with the reclaimed carriage lanterns they have up at the metalworking studio, a two-for-one deal? 

David notices, vaguely, that there are voices in the store, Patrick and somebody else. He doesn’t think much of it though; Patrick can handle it. David lets himself sink into the email he’s crafting to Jeanette, complimenting her on her mints and sending her a laundry list of questions about the candles. 

“Well,  _ that’s _ a very promising—” David emerges back into the store to a chorus of familiar laughter. “So nice to see you, Ms. Budd.”

“Charmed as always, Mr. Rose,” Stevie replies. She catches Patrick’s eye and collapses over the counter, both of them laughing.

“Um, is there a joke that I’m missing, here?” David wrinkles his nose, inspecting the counter. “Also, why are the mints up here? Why did we move the lip balms?”

“I told you that I was going to put the mints out, David,” Patrick says. “You said that they met with your approval.” His face is serious but his eyes are sparkling with suppressed laughter.

“Um, my  _ conditional _ approval,” David clarifies. “They’re a solid product, but do they really merit moving the lip balms?”

“Well, I wanted to give the breath mints a fighting chance,” Patrick says. “Since they’re new, and all.”

“Uh oh,” Stevie says, in a  _ voce _ that’s a lot less  _ sotto _ than she probably thinks it is.

It degenerates from there. David tries to explain the perils inherent in moving the lip balms—a best seller! A staple of the store!—from the cash register, where people expect to see them; Patrick retaliates with a frankly off-topic comment about the fugly brooms that David has banished to the back room. Somehow, this all turns into Patrick and Stevie ganging up on David, insinuating that he doesn’t know how to compromise, which is both blatantly untrue and completely unfair. Eventually David leaves to pick up the new shipment of tote bags from the screen printers, Stevie and Patrick giggling together over the counter like a couple of—of—miscreants.

It’s all a lot for David to deal with. He copes by changing all of Stevie’s radio presets to more acceptable channels. Really, he’s doing her a favor; she’ll thank him some day.

Oak Grove is uneventful. If he’s being honest, David can admit that he’s been putting it off for a while despite increasingly annoyed reminders from Patrick. The tote bags are lovely, but the owner of Sullivan Printing is one of the most tedious non-Roland Schitt people that David has ever encountered. Still, the drive is nice enough, and even Sully’s extended monologue on polyester versus nylon mesh is—okay, it’s still mind-bendingly dull, but David can deal with it. There’s something rewarding about it, even, sifting through the drone of technical terms to get to the buzz of creativity behind it.

On the drive back, though, David starts to worry. He’s not unaware that his high standards, no matter how justified or objectively correct, can be a lot for other people to handle. In the past, David hasn’t let it concern him. If anything, it’s been a blessing, freeing David from the dead weight of people with terrible opinions. Now, though—

David can’t help but think of his mother, who spent the morning talking up Ted’s girlfriend Heather. She wasn’t even doing it to be mean; she was just  _ completely _ oblivious to Alexis’ obvious distress and David’s even more obvious frantic gestures. Moira Rose lives in her own world, and the guest list is  _ very _ exclusive. To be fair, if Alexis were capable of expressing a sincere human emotion, Moira might occasionally catch a clue—but is it really fair to blame Alexis for being emotionally unavailable, given the way they were both raised?

The thought sits oddly in David’s mind, the shape of it awkward and unsettling. It’s not that he’s unfamiliar with the many and varied ways that his family sucks; David could give a fucking TED Talk about how everyone he’s related to is the literal worst. It’s not  _ news _ . His parents weren’t meant to be parents, and they didn’t do a very good job of it. It’s just the way things are. 

...except that it  _ isn’t _ , clearly. At the very least it’s not the way Rachel and Patrick are. David thinks of Rachel belting out Spice Girls lyrics to make Jamie giggle, thinks of Patrick leaning close to let Jamie explain how a pulley works. Patrick and Rachel weren’t ready to be parents, but they leaned in to it and did it anyway, made it work even when their relationship fell apart. And that’s just—why? How? Could  _ David’s _ parents have done that? 

It feels like poking a bruise to think about, tender and uncomfortable. What makes some people good parents, and other people disasters?

Patrick can put the mints wherever he wants, David decides. That’s—it’s fine. David can deal. David can let go of a little bit of his vision in order to make room for what Patrick wants, even if what Patrick wants is objectively dumb and wrong. 

For Patrick, David can do...a lot of things, apparently.

Naturally, David’s newfound generosity is tested immediately. He stops dead just inside the door, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

“I notice that some of our more discreet back-room items are now on display at the front of the store.” He picks up one of the eight— _ eight! _ —toilet plungers with the absolute minimum of bare-skin contact. “This would have  _ nothing _ to do with the conversation we just had right before I left, would it?”

“Well, people have been asking for plungers.” Patrick says it like this is a casual conversation, like he isn’t stepping around the counter to better see David’s full-body cringe. “And you insist on keeping them hidden away in the back room, because you find them offensive.” He leans against the counter with an elaborate lack of concern, saying some nonsense about finding opportunities for David to compromise. It’s completely ludicrous, obviously, but if Patrick really thinks that assaulting customers with the sight of a toilet plunger is a sound marketing strategy—

“—then that is a compromise that I am...willing…” David manages, “to make.”

“You sure?” Behind Patrick, Stevie has stopped pretending to restock hand creams and is flat-out staring at David, her eyes wide and eager.

“Look at his  _ face _ ,” she hisses gleefully.

“Look at  _ your _ face,” David snaps, then turns back to Patrick. “Yes,” he says, “yes.” He’s not entirely clear as to  _ why _ this otherwise delightful Monday has become Let’s Be Incorrect About Everything Day, but if this is how Patrick wants to play it, fine. David can compromise.

David can let Patrick put the toilet brushes out front, even. It’s fine; he needs to re-arrange all of the hand creams that Stevie was “helpfully” “organizing” for them.

The rest of the day is more of the same, with Patrick and Stevie making increasingly appalling suggestions about things to change. It’s actually kind of flattering, in a backwards way: they couldn’t make such awful suggestions if they didn’t know, on some level, what was actually appropriate.

It doesn’t mean it’s not annoying as fuck, though. David sends a lot of emails from the back room, where he doesn’t have to see whatever new atrocity Stevie and Patrick have decided to visit on their poor, unsuspecting customers. Compromise has its limits.

Later that evening, though, David is back on the shop floor, trying to find small enough words to explain to Patrick why they can’t put the hand cream next to the cutting boards. When the bell rings, David spins to the door, hoping for a customer to disrupt this endless circular argument. Even better, it’s Rachel.

“Rachel, thank God, back me up, please,” he says, but Rachel shakes her head.

“We were hoping to talk with Stevie, actually.”

David rolls his eyes. “Good luck with  _ that _ ; she’s being a complete fucking—” David pauses as the second half of Rachel’s comment registers. “Wait,  _ we _ ?”

“Jamie’s in the car,” Rachel says. “We had a long talk about appropriate behavior last night.” She sighs and presses her fingers to her forehead. “And this morning. And this afternoon.”

“Rachel, no.” Stevie steps forward. “Listen, I was serious, you don’t need to make her—” Her face twists, full of the kind of strong emotion that Stevie excels at never showing. “I told you, it’s okay if she doesn’t like me. I get it,” she says with a little shrug. “That’s—she’s allowed.”

“Yeah, we talked about that, too,” Rachel says. “But she could have really hurt you yesterday, and that’s  _ not _ okay.” She frowns at Stevie, staring her down until Stevie huffs out a sigh.

“Okay, fine.” Stevie crosses her arms over her chest, uncrosses them, rubs the palms of her hands on her jeans, grimaces. “So how do we want to do this? Do I—oh, okay,” she says, as Rachel disappears out the front door, presumably to go get Jamie. “Fuck.” Stevie whirls to face Patrick. “Did  _ you _ know this was happening?” 

“No!” Patrick grimaces. “I mean, Rachel and I talked last night, but I thought she was going to give Jamie some time to cool off first. I  _ definitely _ didn’t know they were going to come here.” He glances at David, then back at Stevie, his face drawn and pale. “We can go into the back if you want? Give you two some space?”

“No,” Stevie says. “Yes. Maybe?” She scrubs her hands over her face. “Fuck, what do I do?”

“I don’t know!” Patrick bites his lip, tapping his hands against the cash in a rapid, unsteady tattoo.

“How do you not know? You’re her  _ dad _ !” Stevie’s voice is getting distinctly screechy. David glances out the front window, but there’s no sign of Rachel or Jamie for the time being.

“Shockingly, the parenting classes didn’t have a section on ‘What To Do When Your Daughter Attempts To Murder Your Ex-Wife’s New Girlfriend.” Patrick’s voice is sharper than David has ever heard it, which,  _ no _ .

“Okay, both of you need to chill the fuck out before you commit an  _ actual _ murder.”

“Right,” Stevie says poisonously, “because suddenly you’re some sort of apology expert?”

“God, no.” David shudders. “But I hardly think that you two having a screaming fight is going to help anything.” He rests his hands on Stevie’s shoulders. “Look, you don’t have anything to apologize for, so your job is easy.” 

Stevie makes a face. “Is it?”

“You literally just have to stand there and not say anything terrible,” David tells her. “I know it’s going to be a stretch, but I believe in you. And you—” Patrick is watching the two of them with wide, unreadable eyes. “Fuck, I don’t know. Try to chill out, maybe?”

“I—” Patrick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his brow furrowed. “David, no offense,” he says, always an excellent sign. “But do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

It almost stings, but there’s not time. David peers out the window, and sure enough, Rachel and Jamie are crossing the street. “Look, this is happening, so just—” David ducks behind the counter to stand next to Patrick. “Just imagine what my mother would do, and then do...not that.” 

The bell chimes as Rachel enters, Jamie close behind her. Rachel turns and crouches with her hands on Jamie’s shoulders, saying something that David can’t make out. Jamie reaches up to give her mother a hug, then steps away, nodding.

“Stevie?” Stevie turns around, immediately abandoning the pile of hand towels she was pretending to organize. “Jamie has something she wants to say to you.” Rachel sets a hand on Jamie’s upper back, guiding her gently forward. 

Jamie takes a deep breath, then steels herself and looks up at Stevie. “I’m sorry I was mean to you yesterday.” She glances back at Rachel, who nods encouragingly. “I’m sorry I spilled paint on you, and I’m sorry I loosened the screws in your paint roller, and I’m really,  _ really _ sorry that I put the ladder on your shoelaces and made you fall over. I hope your head feels better.”

“It does,” Stevie says. “And, uh.” She glances over to David and Patrick, then back at Jamie. “Thank you for apologizing.”

“You’re welcome,” Jamie says. David can see Rachel let out an enormous breath, her eyes flickering closed in a moment of transparent relief. “I still don’t like you, though.” Rachel’s eyes flash open, then squeeze shut in a wince. “And I’m not going to.” Jamie’s lower lip pushes out at a mutinous angle.

Behind the cash, Patrick is practically vibrating with tension. David brushes a thumb over the line of Patrick’s wrist, slow and soothing, until Patrick unclenches his death grip on the cash.

“Um.” Stevie blinks, her shoulders loosening slightly. “Okay.”

“Mom says I don’t have to like you if I don’t want to.” Rachel opens her mouth, then shuts it without saying anything.

“I—you don’t,” Stevie says. “It’s okay if you don’t like me.”

“Well, I  _ don’t _ ,” Jamie says vehemently. “And I don’t care if you like  _ me _ , either.”

“I don’t  _ not _ like you?” Jamie wrinkles her nose, nonplussed. “I mean, I don’t, like, hate you or anything,” Stevie continues with a shrug. “I just...don’t really know you, I guess.”

“You  _ don’t _ ,” Jamie agrees vehemently. “And you’re not  _ going _ to, because we’re  _ not friends. _ ”

The moment lingers, a tableau the fading sunlight: Jamie and Stevie facing off, heads tilted at the same stubborn angle, sizing each other up. Then, as if on cue, they turn away from each other, Jamie over to the rack of shawls, Stevie back to the display she was butchering.

“Okay.” Rachel lets out a breath, her shoulders easing down. “That was—yeah.” She drags a hand down her face, then claps her hands together, brisk and businesslike. “So I was thinking—” She breaks off, her face crumpling in incredulous disgust. “David, why are the plungers up front? And are those  _ toilet brushes? _ ” She leans in for a closer look, then backs away, turning to David with a look of betrayal and concern. “Did  _ you _ hit your head?”

“No,” David assures her. “No, none of this was  _ my _ idea.” He tilts his head meaningfully towards Patrick, who manages a decent approximation of his usual smirk.

“I should have known,” Rachel says, shaking her head. “He gets like this sometimes, sorry.”

“But David, you told me it didn’t bother you,” Patrick says, his eyes performatively wide. “You said you were willing to compromise.”

“Yes,” David says slowly. “But that doesn’t mean I  _ like _ it.” He spreads his hands wide, unwilling to pretend. “There, I said it.”

“Let it out, David,” Stevie says, leaning against the counter. “Just let it all out.”

“Don’t even start.” David whirls to point at her. “You were egging him on all day! You’re the absolute  _ worst _ , I don’t even know why I like you.” 

Over by the shawls, Jamie snorts audibly. Stevie hesitates, then shrugs, turning back to David. “Does that mean that you don’t want me to bring out the kitchen sponges from the back room?” She tilts her head. “I figured you could put them next to the soap, make a little section for cleaning products.”

“Okay,  _ first  _ of all, that is hand-milled soap with a custom fragrance including notes of cardamom, violet, cedar and leather,” David says. “It is a cleaning product in the same way that Beyoncé is a singing telegram, which is to say,  _ not remotely _ .”

“I don’t know, David.” Patrick cocks his head thoughtfully, getting into the bit. “I think Beyoncé could be a decent singing telegram if she really wanted to.”

“Obviously she’d be an  _ amazing _ singing telegram,” David snaps, rolling his eyes, “but she doesn’t have to, because she’s Beyoncé.” He turns back to Stevie. “And secondly, kitchen sponges are disgusting.”

“No,” Stevie replies, “trying to clean a kitchen without a sponge is disgusting.”

“Yes, okay, they get the place clean, but at what cost?”

“Mmmm, the markup on the sponges is actually very good,” Patrick puts in. “Same with the plungers and the brushes. It makes me think that we should be taking more products from the back and putting them out here.” He glances around the store like he’s envisioning all of the ugly, practical, profitable products he could fit into David’s peaceful, beautifully curated space.

“No,” David says firmly, cutting that idea off at the knees, “no. No, no, no.” He channels his mother at her most outraged, throwing his hands into the air and stomping across the room.

It’s a completely disproportionate reaction to the sponges and David knows it; they’re not even the worst of the backroom items. David can’t stop, though, can already feel his face doing the thing it always does when people are being amazingly, spectacularly wrong. He’s been holding it together by a thread all day, through Patrick’s soft mouth and sparkling eyes, through endless incorrect suggestions. He kept his calm while Jamie and Stevie had their little showdown. This? This is  _ too much _ .

“I'm sorry that I know what is and what is not correct, but I  _ do _ ,” he informs them, “and this? This is incorrect.” He gestures at the display of toilet-themed items that Stevie has lovingly crafted directly in front of the door. “Plungers at the front of the store? Incorrect.” 

He could stop—God knows that Stevie and Patrick have already heard his opinions, and Rachel is clearly capable of distinguishing right from wrong—but Jamie has turned around and is giggling as he rants, the sound bright and cheerful. Somehow David winds up leading Rachel and Jamie through the entire store, pointing out everything that Patrick and Stevie have changed and detailing their errors.

“And then there’s these  _ mountaineering _ shoes that my—” David cuts himself off just in time, the unsaid word echoing through the store. 

It’s not even a word David likes, usually. It’s got such a middle-school feeling about it, while somehow also conveying a sense of hometown sincerity that doesn’t normally apply to David’s relationships. David Rose has  _ lovers _ , or  _ friends _ , or  _ situations _ ; David Rose definitely has  _ exes _ . David Rose has wondered, in the quiet darkness of a too-large bed, what it might feel like to have a  _ partner _ .

David Rose definitely doesn’t have a  _ boyfriend _ , but God, he wishes, he wishes—

But he can’t. Not now. He takes a breath.

“Your shoes are  _ fundamentally _ incorrect,” he says, gesturing at Patrick’s feet.

“What’s—” Patrick clears his throat, looking up at David. His face is full of the same feeling that’s squeezing around David’s throat and sucking all of the air out of the room. “What’s wrong with my shoes, David?” 

“Well—”

“Oh, I  _ really _ don’t think we have time to get into that right now,” Rachel interrupts. “I, for one, would like to eat dinner sometime this year.” She looks down at Jamie. “What do you think, kiddo? Dinner sound good?”

“Yes, please,” Jamie says. She turns to look at David and Patrick. “ _ I _ like your shoes, Dad,” she says loyally, “but David is right about the toilet plungers.” She glances between them, nods, and darts in for a hug, one arm around each of them. David winds up stepping closer to Patrick in order to make the hug work, the back of his hand brushing against Patrick’s. “Now stop being silly and close up the store,” Jamie says, her voice muffled against Patrick’s chest. “You were supposed to close ten minutes ago.”

“And I bet that closing up late is incorrect, hmm?” Patrick wraps an arm around David’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. “Thanks for the reminder, bug—we’ll get to work on that.”

“Good.” Jamie squeezes them tight, then breaks away, grabbing Rachel by the hand and tugging her out the door. “Night, Dad! Night, David! Love you!”

“Good night,” Rachel says over her shoulder, already halfway outside. “David, good luck!”

“Well, my work here is done,” Stevie says, and she’s grabbed her bag and is out the door after them before David can ask her what  _ work _ , exactly, she thinks she did today.

And then it’s just David and Patrick, alone in the store, their little oasis of peace and good taste glowing in the gathering dusk.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says abruptly, “if I took it too far, today, with the teasing.”

“I—appreciate your apology?” David raises an eyebrow. “Although if you don’t actually  _ want _ the plungers at the front of the store, I’m not really sure why we had to go through all of this.”

“I just—You’re so—” Patrick starts, then shakes his head. “I needed something to do that wasn’t just kissing you all day long,” he says, finally. “This seemed like a marginally more professional alternative.”

There’s no way to respond to that, not in words. Instead, David leans in and kisses Patrick, slow and thorough, dragging it out until they’re both panting for breath, then immediately going back in for another kiss, another, another. He keeps going until Patrick is clutching at him, his fingers deliciously tight on David’s shoulders, his hips moving restlessly against David’s. When they pull apart, his eyes are hazy and unfocused, his face flushed pink, his hair mussed.

“Come home with me,” he says, then winces. “I mean, if you want to.”

“I want to,” David says. “I definitely—um, as long as  _ you _ want to?” David’s not naive enough to believe that ‘shrieking about toilet plungers’ is a sexy look, even for him. If Patrick needs space, that’s completely reasonable.

“Oh, I definitely want to.” Patrick’s smirk should be illegal, really, or maybe it’s just that it makes David think about things that are probably illegal somewhere. “Although I do have one question—” David nods, already leaning back in to taste the skin over Patrick’s pulse, but Patrick makes a serious noise and tugs at David’s hair, which, mmmmm,  _ very _ nice. “David.”

“What? I’m listening,” David lies, but he lets himself be pulled gently away from Patrick’s neck. “Okay, fine, what is it?”

“I just want to know—” Patrick bites his lip, glancing down, then meets David’s gaze. His eyes are very dark. “Do you really hate my hiking boots?”

“Patrick.” David leans back in until he can murmur directly into Patrick’s ear, low and deliberate. “Patrick, every time you wear those boots, I want to tear them off you.” He pulls back, letting his cheek scrape slowly against Patrick’s.

“...that can be arranged,” Patrick says.

***

They fumble their way through the rituals of closing, counting out the cash and sweeping the floors, circling each other in uneven, irregular orbits around the store. Whenever David glances over, Patrick is looking at him, these completely unfair sidelong glances full of heat and promise.

“Focus, David,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.

“I’ll focus  _ you _ ,” David mutters, and makes a point of facing away from Patrick when he bends over with the dustpan. He takes his time, angling the brush to get all of the dirt and grit, dragging out the moment. When he stands up, Patrick is gratifyingly flushed, his hands slack on the keyboard, his mouth slightly open, staring at David’s ass. When David raises an eyebrow, Patrick blinks hard, shaking himself, then laughs.

“Point taken,” he says, and turns back to the computer with a decisive little nod. 

David finishes sweeping and heads into the stockroom to put the broom back. He can’t resist the urge to trail his free hand along Patrick’s shoulders, relishing the way Patrick shivers under his touch. Suddenly Patrick whirls around, advancing into David’s space and shoving David up against the doorframe. David still has the broom in one hand, but he fists the other hand in the collar of Patrick’s shirt, wrinkling the terrible cotton-poly blend and not caring at all.

“David,” Patrick says, but David doesn’t get a chance to respond before Patrick is kissing him, wet and pushy and demanding. Patrick’s hands are implacable on David’s hips, trapping David in place as Patrick grinds against him. David can feel the warm, blunt pressure of Patrick’s dick even through his jeans. He shivers in anticipation, kissing back, spreading his legs to welcome Patrick against him.

“Fuck, yeah,” he gasps as Patrick breaks off to leave a line of hot, biting kisses down David’s neck. “Fuck, Patrick, are you—are you done? Can we be done?” Patrick pulls away, blinking, and David has to drop a quick kiss on the perfect wet bow of his mouth. “Focus, Patrick,” he says. “Did you finish with the cash?”

“I—yeah,” Patrick says vaguely, “yeah, I finished.” His clothes are rumpled and his dick is hard against David’s, his hips still moving gently. For a split second, David seriously considers just dragging Patrick into the back room. He could shove Patrick against the wall, could get on his knees and Patrick off fast and dirty. David could do it, he  _ wants _ to do it, but—

“Your place,” David says, reminding himself as much as Patrick. “Your place, come on, we’re done here, let’s lock up.” He slides his hand down Patrick’s back, palms his ass and leans in to speak directly into his ear. “You have that nice big bed, remember?”

Patrick makes a noise like a steam kettle boiling over and bites down hard on David’s neck. He shoves himself away from David like he’s on fire, like they’re both on fire.

“Okay.” Patrick has his hands out at his sides, not touching anything. His eyes are wild. “Okay, let’s—do that.” He stares at David for a long moment, then gives a little snort of laughter. “Maybe put the broom away first, though?”

“Fuck you,” David says, and turns away from the look in Patrick’s eyes before they can get distracted again.

They manage to gather their things and lock up without any more disruptions, stumbling out to Patrick’s car, laughing for no reason. David tugs on the car door, but it doesn’t open. Confused, he looks up to see Patrick staring at him over the car, biting his lip.

“Okay, so.” Patrick has both hands on the roof of the car, like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t want to make any assumptions, here, but, uh—” He lifts one hand and rubs at the back of his neck. “I really need you to not—distract me, while I’m driving.” The blush is back, pink and furious in the apples of Patrick’s cheeks. David’s mouth is watering, but he nods.

“No road head, got it,” David says. Honestly, he wouldn’t have; driving is dangerous enough as it is without adding in extra complications. Still, the image is compelling: leaning into Patrick’s lap, sucking him down while he tries to concentrate, everything cramped and sweaty and overwhelming. An idea worth exploring in another context, definitely. David raises his eyebrows at Patrick. “Let me know if there’s anything you  _ do _ want,” he purrs.

“...Jesus, get in the car,” Patrick says, his expression ecstatic and pained. He yanks at the door handle several times before shoving his hand into his pocket and unlocking the car with a muted beep and an embarrassed grin.

They drive in comfortable silence, and David keeps his hands to himself, tapping his fingers against his thighs in a simmer of anticipation. He stares at Patrick’s face instead of touching, watching the street lights flicker and catch on his hair, his forehead, his mouth.

“You keep looking at me.” Patrick glances over at David, his face lit by the glow of a stoplight. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Mmmm, not yet,” David says, and grins when Patrick bites his lip and breathes out through his nose. 

“David—”

“The light’s green,” David informs him, and shivers at the look Patrick gives him.

They make it to Patrick’s house. Patrick kills the engine and is out of the car before David can even finish unbuckling his seatbelt, striding up the driveway.

“In a hurry?” David calls softly, mindful of this sweet residential neighborhood, all old trees and well-kept lawns. He catches up to Patrick at the doorway, standing there with the key in the lock, his eyes tracking David’s progress. “You have something you need to do, Patrick?”

“Yes.” Patrick pushes the door open, tugging David after him with a hand around his wrist. David laughs and lets himself be pulled.

Inside, it’s like taking a movie off pause, a sudden blur of action. Patrick drags David close for a searing kiss, then spins them around and pins David against the closed door, biting at his collarbone.

“Mmm, yes,” David gasps, “but also, no, come on, you had a plan, remember?” He takes Patrick by the shoulders and starts walking him backwards, steering them carefully into the darkened living room. “Furniture, Patrick,” he murmurs. “Your bed.”

“Right,” Patrick says, glancing over his shoulder and then abruptly veering off to the left, pulling David after him in a tumble of limbs that resolves with Patrick on the couch, David straddling his lap.

“Patrick.” David tries to manage a reproving frown. Patrick grins up at him, unrepentant.

“The couch is furniture,” he says, and, well. 

He does have a point. 

David leans down for a kiss, lets himself get lost in the push and pull of their bodies together, the wet slide of Patrick’s lips on his, the anchor of Patrick’s hands on his hips. They rock together for long, breathless minutes until Patrick starts squirming underneath David in a way that isn’t just arousal.

“Sorry.” He eases David backwards and undoes the button of his jeans. “I just need to—there,” he sighs, sliding the zipper down and tugging at the waistband to give himself some room. 

David stares, transfixed. Patrick’s boxers are boring, some kind of stripe pattern, the colors muted in the half-light, but his dick is right there, hard and mouthwateringly thick. It presses up into the vee of the open zipper, the tip visibly damp through the fabric. David can’t help himself: he backs off of Patrick’s lap and down onto his knees in front of the couch, pulling Patrick’s jeans with him.

“David, oh, oh—” Patrick gasps, as David leans in to lay his mouth over that wet spot, sucking gently through the fabric. Patrick is salty and bitter against his tongue, his thighs trembling under David’s hands. He brushes a hand gently against David’s hair and David leans into it, humming appreciatively as Patrick’s nails scrape along his scalp.

“You can do that,” he says, when Patrick tugs tentatively at his hair. “You can do that harder, even.” Patrick makes a fist in David’s hair, steady and deliberate and perfect until abruptly it’s not enough. David scrambles for the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, yanking at it until Patrick gets with the picture and lifts his hips.

Patrick’s dick is  _ gorgeous _ , hard and thick and wet. David starts to lean in, mouth already open, only to get pulled up short by Patrick’s hand in his hair.

“David, I, we.” Patrick swallows, shakes his head briskly. “Condoms are upstairs, sorry.”

“Ugh, do we  _ have _ to?” But that’s not the right thing to say, not with Patrick. It’s not mature, not responsible, not  _ careful _ . “Sorry,” David says, wincing. “You’re right, I know you’re right, it’s just—”

“I’ve never, um.” Patrick bites his lip and looks away. “Without.” 

“Never?”

Patrick shakes his head. “There wasn’t anyone who—it never seemed worth it.” His voice is quiet.  “I—I want to, though.” He meets David’s gaze, his eyes wide and dark. “I really want to, David.”

“Oh.” David bites his lip. “I got tested after Sebastien,” he offers tentatively. “Like,  _ immediately  _ after.” He pats at his pockets. “The results are on my phone, hang on—”

“I trust you,” Patrick says, waving David’s words away with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “I got tested a few months ago, but I’m not 100% sure where the paperwork is.” He looks over at the corner and winces. “I think it’s in one of those boxes?”

“Well, I—” The words crack in David’s mouth, heavy and unfamiliar. “I trust you, so.”

“You—” Patrick swallows. “You don’t have to, David,” he says. “I completely understand if—”

“I do, though.” It comes out stronger this time, the idea taking root in David’s mind, clicking into place. “I trust you, Patrick.” He leans in slowly, basking in the heat of Patrick’s body. “And if you trust me…” He looks up at Patrick, raises his eyebrows, licks his lips in a silent offer.

Patrick’s hand clenches in his hair, a confirmation in and of itself, but David still waits until he hears Patrick saying, “God, David,  _ yes _ ,” before he closes the last distance.

David gets his mouth around the head of Patrick’s dick and moans in satisfaction, feels Patrick groaning back. Patrick’s hand is solid and heavy in his hair, riding the perfect edge between demanding and rude, and David lets himself be directed, taking Patrick down and sucking hard, drawing back to lick a slow, lush circle around the head, feeling Patrick leak into his mouth. 

It’s so good, it’s too good. David could stay here forever, caught between Patrick’s hands and his dick, wanted and wanting and having, but suddenly Patrick is pulling the other way, dragging David back again.

“What?” David looks up at Patrick, frowning. “Why are we stopping? I thought—”

“The bed, David,” Patrick says. “We were going to—the bed is upstairs.”

“Hmmm, true.” David licks his lips, making sure to flick the tip of his tongue over the head of Patrick’s dick. “But, you know, I’m good down here.” His scalp is already deliciously sore from Patrick’s hands. David leans into the pressure, resting his chin against Patrick's knee and looking up at Patrick from under his eyelashes. “I’m  _ really _ good down here.”

Patrick almost caves, David can see it, but then he shakes his head and stands. He kicks his feet free of his jeans and boxers and reaches a hand down to help David up.

“I want you in my bed, David,” he says against David’s mouth, his words punctuated with quick, light kisses. “I want you,” kiss, “naked,” kiss, “in my bed,” kiss, “with the lights on.” Another, longer kiss, this one ending with a bite to David’s lower lip. “I want to  _ see _ you, David,” he says, which is just— _ fuck _ .

“Well, if you have a  _ vision _ ,” David says, “then by all means.”

Patrick’s vision involves the two of them hurrying up the stairs. It’s a fumbling, frantic disaster, their hands all over each other, unable to separate for more than a breath. Patrick almost trips on Jamie’s sneakers, abandoned at the foot of the staircase; David’s shoulder catches on a framed family photo. It goes swinging wildly and they both laugh, giddy and restless.

In the bedroom, Patrick slaps at the light switch, pushing David towards the bed. David goes willingly, dropping onto his back. Patrick should look ridiculous—naked from the waist down, shirt rumpled, face flushed—but he stares at David, his eyes dark and gleaming in the glow of the lamp, and David swallows hard, shifting his weight on the bed in anticipation.

“Well?” David tries to keep his voice airy and teasing, quirking an eyebrow at Patrick. “You’ve got me in your bed, now what?”

“Mmm, I think I said I wanted you  _ naked _ in my bed,” Patrick reminds him, stepping forward and resting his hands at the hem of David’s sweater. “If that’s okay with you.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just strips David out of his clothes, his hands firm and excruciatingly gentle against David’s skin. He pauses every so often, like he’s getting distracted: leans in to rub his face against David’s chest, presses a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of David’s arm, draws back and just  _ stares _ at David like he can’t get enough.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me, please.” David shivers, caught and pinned by the weight of that gaze.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” Patrick smirks. “Here, let me get those for you.” He gets David’s pants off, folds them carefully over the end of the bed, and then muscles his way between David’s legs, opening his mouth and breathing hot, damp air over the elastic of David’s briefs, the crease of his thigh. David hears himself make a high, shocked noise, his hips jerking; he meets Patrick’s eyes and sees that same wild, electric feeling.

“I want to suck you,” Patrick says. David could live forever in this moment, watching Patrick’s sweet, responsible mouth wrap around those syllables. “David, fuck, I want to to suck you, tell me I can—”

“You can, I want it,  _ please _ .” David is already shoving frantically at his underwear, thrashing his way free and just barely managing to avoid kneeing Patrick in the head. It’s uncoordinated and undignified and Patrick manifestly does not give a single fuck. Instead, he throws an arm over David’s hips and sucks David’s dick like he’s been starving for it.

It’s one thing to know that Patrick has been with men before, to think about Patrick going to his knees for some random in a back alley or a bar bathroom. That’s hot, but it’s another thing entirely to have Patrick’s mouth on him. There’s no hesitation, no nervousness, just the wet pressure of Patrick’s lips sliding over him, slow and breathtakingly confident. Patrick sinks into a lazy rhythm, down and up, his free hand scratching aimlessly against David’s thigh in counterpoint. 

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” David gasps, twisting his hands in the covers, his nerves fizzing. Patrick pulls off with a showy pop, looking up at David like some seriously high-end porn.

“You okay, David?” His eyes are all pupil, dark and intent, and his lips brush wetly against the head of David’s dick as he talks. “Any requests?”

“You’re unbelievable.” David cups Patrick’s face in a hand that only shakes a little. “You’re a fucking  _ menace _ .”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Patrick licks his way back down David’s dick before David can tell him he’s right.

But for all that Patrick gives an amazing blowjob—and it’s seriously top-notch; David says a quiet mental thank-you to the randoms of Ontario who helped Patrick hone his craft—it does seem like he’s he’s maybe a little bit...distracted. 

It’s odd. David knows from unfortunate experience what it feels like when a partner is thinking of someone else—the vagueness in the eyes, the hands that turn impersonal, the kissing by numbers—and that’s  _ not _ what’s happening. If anything, Patrick is  _ aggressively _ present, moaning around David’s dick, his hands smoothing up and down David’s legs like he can’t get enough of the feeling. He just keeps stopping to do other things, deliciously filthy other things that give David some very interesting ideas.

The third time that Patrick pauses the blowjob to bite kisses high on the inside of David’s thighs, his mouth sharp and insistent, David stops him.

“Not that I’m not loving this,” he says, “but is there something...else...that you’d like?” 

“No?” Patrick sounds sincere, but his eyes flicker away for a split second. 

“You sure?” David raises his eyebrows, brushing his thumb back and forth over the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “Because it seems like maybe you want to fuck my thighs.”

Patrick shivers and rests his head against David’s hip, air rushing out of him in a hiss. “I mean, yeah,” he says, his breath rustling the hair on David’s thigh. “But you don’t have to—I want this to be good for you, David.”

“Oh, trust me.” David grins. “It’s gonna be good for me.” He pauses, thinking, then nods. “Okay, scoot back, here.” David rearranges them until they’re spooned up together on their sides, blankets folded down to the end of the bed. Patrick’s arm is caught loosely around David’s waist and his dick is pressed up against the small of David’s back. “Lube?”

“In the night stand,” Patrick says against his shoulder. “Toward the back.” David leans forward enough to reach it, relishing the way Patrick’s fingers tighten against his hip, holding him steady. The lube is a brand David recognizes, water-based and fairly high-end. The bottle is also considerably more than halfway empty. “Nice choice,” David says. “Although, you know, the stuff we sell at the store is better.”

“I’ll get some tomorrow,” Patrick says breathlessly. “Unless you want me to go now?”

“No, this will do nicely.” David squeezes a puddle of lube into his hand and smears it high on the inside of his thighs, slightly cool on overheated skin. “Now, you just need to—mmm, yes,” he says as Patrick’s dick presses against him. “Yeah, that’s it.” He squeezes his legs together, reaching back to pull on Patrick’s hip, encouraging him to thrust. “Now you fuck me.”

“David, oh my god.” Patrick groans, his forehead pressed against David’s back. “I—okay.” He grips David’s hips and rocks forward, his dick sliding past David’s hole and across his perineum. David arches his spine, pushing into that slick, intimate pressure until Patrick pulls back and does it again. His fingertips press against David’s hipbone as he picks up speed, urgent sliding into desperate. It feels like it might leave a mark; David hopes it does.

“You like this?” he murmurs over his shoulder, tracing his fingers delicately over the back of Patrick’s hand. “You like fucking me like this?”

“ _ Fuck _ .” Patrick’s hips jerk, the tip of his dick just brushing David’s balls. “Fuck, David, it’s so much, it’s so good,  _ you’re _ so good—” He trails off, panting, and presses a vicious, biting kiss to David’s shoulderblade. He’s fucking David hard and fast, precome mixing with lube until everything is wet and messy and disgustingly good.

“Yeah.” David reaches back to pull Patrick impossibly closer. “Yeah, come on, give it to me,” he says. “I like it, I want it, come on, Patrick, do it.” Patrick shudders behind him, his hips working frantically, coming between David’s thighs with a moan and a bitten-off curse. David’s whole body is oversensitive and aching, fizzing with frustrated pleasure, but he stays where he is as Patrick’s thrusts slow and then stop.

“Sorry.” Patrick rolls away from David. “I didn’t mean to get so—sorry.” When David twists over to look at him, he looks sated but vaguely guilty.

“Trust me,” David says, shifting onto his back and stretching languorously, “you have absolutely  _ nothing _ to be sorry about.” He reaches over his head to brace his hands against the headboard, arching his back until it pops, relishing the ache. He lets his eyes flutter open and gives Patrick his best bedroom smirk. “I know you’re good for it.”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, grinning. “Yeah, I’m going to take care of you, David.”

“Mmm,” David agrees. “I like the sound of that.” 

“Here,” Patrick says, “like this, let me—” David lets Patrick lift his knee up and duck under it. Patrick settles between David’s legs, licking his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Promising,” David tells him, “very promising, assuming you don’t get distracted a—ah!” David breaks off, choking for air, as Patrick leans in and opens his mouth directly over David’s balls in a filthy kiss, licking his own come off of David’s skin. “Fuck, yes.” David spreads his legs as wide as he can, needing more. Patrick seems to read his mind, gripping David’s thigh and pushing it over his shoulder. Before David can adjust, Patrick takes advantage of the new angle to rub his fingers firmly over David’s hole, slick and sticky with come and lube.

“God, yeah,” Patrick says. His breath rushes out hot and insistent over the base of David’s dick. “You like that? You want it like this?”

“Stop fucking around and give it to me,” David says. “Give me more, come on, come  _ on _ .” He digs his heel into Patrick’s shoulder, urging him into motion.

“David,” Patrick says, like a curse, like a prayer. He eases a fingertip into David’s hole, that awkward, overwhelming stretch that sets David’s nerves on fire. “Like this?”

“ _ More _ .” David rocks his hips forward towards Patrick’s mouth and back towards his fingers. “Fuck, yeah, just like that.” Patrick pulls back enough to slide his hand through the mess between David’s thighs, then gives him two fingers, slick and solid and crooked just  _ so _ . “Fuck, you’re so good at this, why are you so good,” he groans as Patrick begins to fuck him like that. He’s confident and controlled, unhurried and inescapable as he gradually turns David’s whole body into a greedy, frantic, overstimulated mess.

“Well, practice makes perfect.” Patrick grins up at David, his voice perfectly level, then wraps his mouth around David’s dick and sucks hard. David comes just like that, tipping over the edge in a blaze of lust and startled, delighted laughter, Patrick’s mouth and hands all over him.

“Fuck,” David says, trembling with aftershocks. “That was—get up here, come on, here.” Patrick laughs, but lets himself be pulled up the bed, settles against David’s body with a satisfied noise.

“That good, huh?” He traces a hand down David’s arm, his short, blunt nails scraping gently over the bones of David’s wrist.

“Fishing for compliments is unflattering,” David tells him sternly, and promptly ruins the effect by leaning in for a kiss. Patrick opens to him easily, his mouth soft and lush and making all kinds of promises that David is very interested in investigating some other time. For now, though—David pulls back and raises an eyebrow. “Your mouth tastes like come,” he informs Patrick.

Patrick blinks, running his tongue along his teeth like he’s checking, then shrugs.

“I—it’s  _ your _ come, David,” he says. “If you didn’t want me to swallow, you should have—”

“No, no, not the point.” David waves him off. “What I mean is, that was excellent, extremely hot, strong work all around—”

“Thanks, I think?”

“—but it’s going to  _ stop _ being hot in about three minutes, so we should probably get cleaned up before that happens.” Patrick stares at him silently for a long moment, and David starts to marshal his list of Reasons Why Prompt Clean-Up After Sex Is Everybody’s Friend. Then Patrick’s face creases with laughter, open and honest and delighted.

“You’re amazing, David Rose,” he says. “Absolutely spectacular.” He sits up and slides off of the bed, stretching his hands over his head. David stays where he is, watching the shift of muscles along Patrick’s arms, the easy assurance in his stance. “Come on, then.” Patrick holds out a hand. “I’ve got an extra toothbrush, let’s get cleaned up.”

David goes.

***

“Yeah, definitely, sounds good,” Patrick says, his voice low. “Okay, I’ll check with Rachel, but that should be good. And do you want to stay—” He pauses, listening, then laughs. “Fair enough.”

David fumbles his way out of sleep, stretching lazily against crisp, clean sheets, groping blindly towards the sound of Patrick’s voice until he hits warm skin. A knee, he sees, blinking his eyes open to check. Patrick is sitting up in bed, smiling down at David. The morning light is streaming in through the curtains and Patrick is gorgeous in it, warm and golden and affectionate.

It’s lovely, but it’s also a lot for David to handle this early in the morning. He closes his eyes and rolls closer, resting his head against Patrick’s thigh. A hand comes down to card gently through David’s hair.

“So I’ll let you know if anything changes, but otherwise we’ll—yeah, see you then.” Patrick rubs a thumb behind David’s ear. “Mhmm. Yeah, sounds good. Okay.” David can’t quite make out the voice on the other end, but whatever they say makes Patrick chuckle. “Yeah, I should probably get going,” he says. “Mmm, no, nothing big, just—yeah, just the store. Okay. Okay.” Another pause. “Love you too,” Patrick says, finally, and sets the phone on the nightstand with a gentle click.

“Family?”

“My mom, yeah,” Patrick says. “They’re going to come up for Jamie’s birthday, probably.” His hand stills in David’s hair. “They don’t—I haven’t said anything yet,” Patrick says. “About us.”

“Oh.” David blinks and sits up, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his brain on track. Next to him, Patrick looks concerned and a little embarrassed, his forehead creased. “That’s—I mean, that’s fine,” David says. “Coming out is—that’s personal, I don’t need you to—”

“No, no, they—” Patrick drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “They  _ definitely _ know I’m gay.” He laughs, short and rueful. “They’ve known for, uh. A while.”

“Okay, well,  _ that _ sounds like a story,” David says. “But we’ll put a pin in that.” He frowns, thinking. “If you’re out to them, though—”

“I just—” Patrick sighs. “We haven’t told Jamie, yet.” He bites his lip. “And I want to, I swear, David, I do, you have to believe me—”

“I do,” David says, “No, really, I do.” He swallows, twisting a ring around his index finger. “I get it, it’s the Stevie thing. It’s weird, now.”

“Yeah.” Patrick sets his jaw. “I’m going to tell her, though.” He reaches out and rests a hand on David’s calf. “Soon, I promise.” He frowns, thoughtful. “Before her birthday, definitely.”

“Before her—um, are you kidding me?” David blinks his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his brain. “You are absolutely  _ not _ going to do that.”

“I don’t like to hide things from her, David,” Patrick says, as though that’s the point here.

“Yes, whatever, that’s very sweet.” David waves the words aside. “But she literally  _ just _ got over the Stevie thing, for a definition of ‘got over’ that’s only about a half-step down from outright loathing. And it’s her  _ birthday _ this weekend,” he adds, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, it’s like you  _ want _ to traumatize her.”

Patrick’s expression goes mulish. “David, I don’t want—I’m not  _ ashamed _ of this,” he says. “I’m not ashamed of you. You’re not some kind of dirty little secret.”

“I—” Patrick’s words hit David square in the chest with a kick like a shot of cheap tequila, a burn in his throat that leaves him choking, breathless, unable to speak. “Thank you,” he says, eventually, blinking hard. “I—that’s good to know.” He takes a shaky breath, looking down at Patrick’s crisp sheets. “But I still don’t think you should tell Jamie yet.” “David—”

“ _ Yet _ .” David puts his hand over Patrick’s and rubs his thumb over Patrick’s knuckles. “You should tell her, I  _ want _ you to tell her, just—” He shrugs, shakes his head. “It’s her birthday. Let her have that, first.” David steels himself and looks up, meets Patrick’s understanding gaze, sees him nod in acknowledgement.

“I will, though,” Patrick says softly. “Not yet, okay, but I promise, David. I’ll tell her soon.”

“I believe you,” David says, and he does, he really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many MANY thanks to whetherwoman, who did a hero's labor in this chapter and refused to let me resolve things too easily.


	8. Chapter 8

David tries not to dwell on what Jamie will think, how she’ll react when she finds out about the two of them. He lets Patrick prod and tease him out of bed and into work, trading lingering gazes and secret smiles. They work together in an easy rhythm, helping customers, tidying the displays, misting the fresh vegetables from Turner Farms. David returns most of the misplaced items to their appropriate homes—toilet affairs in the back room, out of sight; toner to the _left_ of the cleanser—but lets the mints stay where they are.

“See?” He taps an index finger on one of the tins, making the mints inside rattle. “I’m _compromising_.”

“You know, it loses some of the effect when you point it out every time you do it, David.” Patrick’s smile is warm and conspiratorial, and David can feel himself flushing. He ducks his head, but he doesn’t turn away.

A little before 3 pm, Patrick leaves to get Jamie from school. There are no customers, no distractions, and David is fine. He’s _fine_ . David doesn’t worry _at all_ about whatever inadvisably-timed conversations Patrick may or may not be having with his daughter. He’s not worried at all, really. He just re-sorts the hand-bound recycled paper journals by size because—because he wants to, okay? Because it’s something he’s been meaning to do.

When the door swings open, David is holding a notebook in each hand, trying to decide if it makes sense to start with the smallest or the largest. He looks up, totally natural and unperturbed, just a local business and style icon going about his day.

“—and Sasha said that _her_ mom said that she could go on the Vikings’ Revenge, and Darius said that he went _twice_ last summer, and his birthday isn’t until _August_ ,” Jamie says seriously. She doesn’t even glance at David, too focused on whatever argument she’s making to Patrick. “So I think you should let me go, too.”

“Hmm,” Patrick says. “An interesting proposal, for sure.” He looks over to David and smiles. “Anything exciting happen while I was out?”

“Oh, you know,” David says airily. “The 2:55 rush was brutal, as usual, but I managed somehow.”

“You’re truly an inspiration to us all,” Patrick replies. Thank fuck Jamie isn’t looking at his face, because it’s wide open, full of things an almost-ten year old doesn’t need to see. _David_ barely feels old enough to see them.

“David, have you been on the Vikings’ Revenge?” Jamie bounces over to the display of journals, picking one up and leafing through it.

“I—no?” David says, assuming that she’s not talking about a bourbon-fueled grudge-fuck with a Minnesota running back. “Is that a ride?”

“It’s the biggest ride at Splash City,” Jamie says. “And you have to be five feet tall to ride it—”

“Which she isn’t,” Patrick puts in.

“—but I’m _almost_ five feet tall, and Darius _definitely_ isn’t five feet tall, so I don’t think it matters.” 

“Well, safety is important,” David says inanely. It’s good advice. Honestly, he could have used it before his romp with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Repressed.

“I guess.” Jamie shrugs. “What are you doing?” She takes the journal from his left hand. “Why don’t the pages match?”

“They’re made from scrap paper,” David explains, flipping through the notebook and showing her. “See?”  
  
“I guess.” Jamie wrinkles her nose. “It looks kind of messy, though.” Secretly, David agrees—what’s wrong with a nicely-bound notebook of crisp new paper?—but the recycled paper journals sell like crazy. “We made paper in grade three,” Jamie continues, handing the journal back to David. “But it was all lumpy and you could only write on it with, like, a _really_ big pencil.”

“Jamie, honey,” Patrick says, a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Don’t you have math homework to do?”

“Oh yeah,” Jamie says. “We’re doing _decimals_ ,” she informs David, sounding entirely too pleased with her life. “Like, one half is point five, but two thirds is just point six-six-six _forever_.” She tilts her head, looking at the stack of journals. “I think you should sort them by length,” she adds. “So that people who want a notebook with a lot of pages can find one.”

“Jamie,” Patrick says, warm but stern. “Your math?” Jamie skips off to the cash obediently, setting up her notebook and pencils with a happy little hum. 

Patrick steps close to David, resting a hand on his shoulder, which is—it’s fine, that’s totally normal. The shoulder is a perfectly platonic place to touch your business partner. 

“You okay?” 

“It’s fine.” David swallows hard as Patrick’s thumb glides over the collar of his sweater, just barely brushing skin. “She’s right about the journals, actually.” He glances over at Jamie, happily absorbed in her decimals, and fights back the urge to shiver. 

“Well, once you’ve done that, can we talk for a bit?” Patrick’s eyes are wide open, all pupil with the thinnest line of brown. The tip of his thumb is doing frankly indecent things to David’s collarbone.

“I—yes,” David says. “We can...talk...whenever you like.”

“Mmm.” Patrick raises his eyebrows and gives David a quick once-over that feels like a spotlight, hot and bright on David’s skin. He laughs quietly. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, “but I actually meant that we should go over the paperwork for the Warner Farms visit tomorrow.”

“Right.” David blinks, shaking himself out of his sex-haze. “Cheese, absolutely.” He nods, glancing back at the journals. “Give me a minute here?”

“Take all the time you need, David.” 

They’ve been going back and forth about their planned exclusivity contract with Warner Farms for weeks, even before Patrick somehow got her to agree to actually meet with them about it. There’s nothing new to say, but it’s calming to run through the details with Patrick, talking about markups and supply schedules and the timeline for renegotiation. Next to them, Jamie works on her math homework, cheerful and diligent, only interrupting to ask if Warner Farms makes string cheese.

“I’m...not sure,” David tells her. “But I can ask.”

“I like string cheese,” Jamie says, and turns back to her work. David glances over at Patrick, who’s smiling fondly at his daughter. When Patrick looks up and meets David’s eyes, his face somehow becomes even _more_ absurdly fond. It’s warm and knowing and perfect, the kind of look David could roll around in for days—

—but he can’t. Jamie is right there, frowning over quarters and sixths. Her birthday is next week. They _can’t_.

“So, uh.” David clears his throat awkwardly. “The residuals!” Patrick raises an eyebrow and David winces, can feel himself blushing. “Can we go over those one more time?”

“Sure thing, David,” Patrick says. The quirk at the corner of his mouth says that David hasn’t fooled him, but that’s fine. David doesn’t need to fool Patrick, after all; he just needs to fool Jamie.

Apart from that (and the resulting conversation about residuals, which is predictably excruciating), they make it through the rest of the day without any close calls. Patrick and Jamie leave around six, heading out to make dinner together. 

“We’re going to have _meatloaf_.” Jamie says it so cheerfully that David has to pause for a moment, replaying the words.

“...and that’s a good thing?” Not for the first time in his life, David is glad for the time he spent learning how to raise a single eyebrow.

“I mean.” Patrick spreads his hands. “It’s nothing special, but it’s better than the café’s, at least.”

“A ringing endorsement, to be sure,” David says.

“And we’re going to have green beans,” Jamie says gleefully. “Dad makes the _best_ green beans.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves,” David says. He turns away from the door as they go, unable to watch Patrick’s face.

Alone, things are easier, David soothing himself with the rituals of closing. David counts out the cash, sweeps the main floor, tidies the display of moisturizers, and reminds himself that he cannot, _cannot_ fuck this up.

The walk back to the motel is almost nice. The fireflies are out, little explosions of green in the air around him, and they give an eerie sort of beauty to the evening. David can walk by the rows of houses and admire the warm light pouring out the windows without having to actually interact with any of the people who live in those houses.

Back at the motel, there are loud voices from his parents’ room, but David manages to creep past without being noticed. He slips into his room, relieved to find it dark and empty. With a quiet sigh, he shuts the door behind himself as carefully as possible.

“David!” Alexis flips the bedside lamp on, beaming at him from where she’s sitting at the little table. “Oh my _gosh_ , David, it’s like I haven’t seen you in _forever_ !” She beckons him with a finger and pats the chair next to her like he’s a badly-behaved Pekingese she’s trying to house-train. “What is _up?_ With you?” Her voice is light but her eyes are steady and evaluative, taking in every detail. 

David sits. “Oh, you know,” he says carefully. “Busy with the store.”

“Mmmm,” Alexis says, clearly not buying it. “But are you busy with the store, or are you busy with someone _at_ the store?”

“Well…” David bites his lip, drawing out the moment. “There’s actually—I haven’t said anything about it yet, but, um, tomorrow—” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going on a buying trip.”

“Oh my _god_ , David, _love_ that for you!” Alexis actually clasps her hands under her chin, what the actual _entire_ fuck.

“Yeah,” David says, carefully straight-faced. “We’ve been trying to get this woman to come to an exclusivity deal for a while, but she’s been really cagey, so this visit is a big deal.”

“And I am _so_ happy to support your relationship with—wait.” Alexis wrinkles her nose. “Wait, what?”

“She’s really picky about her retailers,” David says. “Can’t have just anybody selling that cheese.” Alexis is catching up and her smile is dissolving into a much more familiar frown. “You remember,” David says, “we had some of the brie last week?”

“That was really good cheese,” Alexis allows. She narrows her eyes. “And Patrick’s not going with you on this trip?”

“Somebody has to handle the store.” David shrugs. “And he gets Jamie from school, so.”

“Mmmm.” For a second, David thinks he’s escaped, but then Alexis gives him a long, thoughtful look. “You know what would be super fun, David?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “If I went with you on your little buying trip!”

“Um, excuse me.” David is all set to say _no_ , to say _go play in traffic_ , to say _leave me the hell alone_ , but he meets Alexis’ eyes and somehow he just—he can’t. She’s going to grill him about Patrick and it’s going to be excruciating, but he can’t tell her no.

“I’m leaving at nine,” he says, instead of saying _you broke up with Ted and it was the most mature thing you’ve ever done and I’m proud of you but I’m sorry._

“Mmm, _love_ that,” Alexis says. “I’ll have time to say hi to Twyla after my run!” She presses a kiss somewhere in the general vicinity of his cheek.

***

The next morning, David’s mom is apparently dead, which is really great, especially since it’s not actually true. Once he’s clarified that particular piece of internet nonsense, David pushes past the camera crews and hurries to the car, hoping to make it in time. No such luck: when he opens the door, Alexis is already there. She beams at him from the passenger seat.

“A buying trip! This is going to be _such_ a cute look for us, David,” she says. “You don’t even know.”

“We have to stop by the store first,” he tells her. “I need to pick up the paperwork.” It’s not a lie. The folder with their proposal for Heather Warner is on the worktable in the back room, squarely in the center. 

It’s just also not, strictly speaking, true. David’s gone over their proposal backwards and forwards, talking it through with Patrick from every conceivable angle. He has three different drafts saved to his phone, not to mention the final version that Patrick sent him.

 _(_[ _pbrewer@gmail.com_ ](mailto:pbrewer@gmail.com) _has invited you to edit the following document_ , it starts, and David stars the message, archives it, all without letting himself think too hard about what he’s doing.)

So David has all of the details he needs to negotiate with Heather Warner. Still, there’s something reassuring about having the papers in his hands, tapping the edge of the pile against the table and feeling everything slot into place. It feels solid and steady and real, something that he’s built from the ground up, something he knows like he knows his own wardrobe. It’s good, having the papers in his hands.

It’s also good to see Patrick beaming from behind the counter in his comfortable, practical button-down.

“All set?” His eyes are twinkling. “Ready to get us a vendor?” David lifts the folder up as proof, but somehow his lifted hand winds up over Patrick’s shoulders, draping there in an easy, instinctive curve. Then Patrick’s hands are around his waist and they’re kissing, kissing in broad daylight in the middle of the store, kissing like nothing else matters, like David’s going off to war instead of to an artisanal cheesemaker’s goat farm.

David’s bracing for some kind of comment from Alexis when he makes his way back to the car, but she just glances at him and goes back to her phone, swiping through strangers’ Instagram stories with practiced ease. David stares at her for a long moment, waiting for the catch, until she makes a face and asks if he wants her to drive.

“Um, seeing as we’re not currently trying to evade a police escort, I’m going to go with _no_ ,” David says. He buckles his seatbelt and throws the car into gear.

Alexis behaves herself through the visit to Penner Farms, by which David means that she only calls Anna and Maria witches when they can’t hear her. She does eat a truly ridiculous number of peanut butter squares, but then again, so does David.

David actually starts to think that he’s safe. Maybe he’s been lucky for once, and the free samples of artisanal desserts have distracted Alexis from her plans to interrogate him. Maybe—

“So you and _Patrick_ were looking super cosy this morning.” Alexis tosses her hair. “I was thinking of taking a picture and sending it to mom. I think it would really cheer her up, you know? After her whole ‘dead on the Internet’ thing.”

“Okay, _no_ ,” David tells her. “I will answer your questions, but you are _not_ telling mom about this.”

“David!”

“Or dad,” he continues. “Or Twyla, or Jocelyn, or _anyone_.”

“Um, David, that’s like, really unhealthy,” Alexis says. “Like, I know you don’t have the best track record with relationships—”

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

“—but you shouldn’t let people treat you like you’re some kind of dirty secret.” When David glances over, Alexis is frowning, biting her lip. “You deserve better than that.” Because of course she takes his side the one time he honestly doesn’t need defending.

“Go chew gravel, Alexis,” David says pleasantly. “It’s not like that.”

“David, I’m just saying—”

“It’s _not_ ,” David says, sharply enough that Alexis actually stops talking and stares at him. “It’s not,” he repeats, softly. “ _I’m_ the one who didn’t want to say anything yet.”

“David!” Alexis swats at his shoulder. “I know he’s not an underwear model, but Patrick is a real sweetie, and he does _not_ deserve this kind of treatment!”

“This kind of—oh, for fuck’s sake.” David tips his head back and tries in vain to stretch the tension out of his neck. “I’m not embarrassed to be dating Patrick!”

“Then why don’t you want me to tell Mom and Dad?”

“Because it’s Jamie’s birthday this weekend!” David snaps. 

It echoes, the car suddenly, aggressively silent. David winces, knowing what’s coming and not comfortable taking his hands off the wheel long enough to stop it. “Shut up,” he says, in what he already knows is a fruitless attempt to nip things in the bud.

“David.”

“Seriously, shut up forever,” he says. Alexis is undeterred.

“David, oh my god, that is honestly just, like, the _cutest_ thing?” He glances over just enough to confirm that Alexis is making the face, that horrible face she makes at baby animals and teen actors and now, apparently, at David. “You’re all protective of her! It’s like you’re her little _daddy_.”

“First of all, _ew_ .” David turns his head so that Alexis can see the face he’s making and be appropriately cowed. “Please _never_ use those words in that order again.” He thinks about it. “Or any order, honestly.”

“Whatever, David.” Alexis tosses her hair. “I’m just saying that I think ‘step-parent’ is going to be a _very_ good look for you.”

“ _No_ ,” David says. “That’s—no.” The whole idea is so profoundly incorrect that he shudders involuntarily. “I’m not going to be her _stepdad_.”

“Um, learn to take a compliment, David.” Alexis tsks at him. “Not everybody can be a good step-parent. I mean, just look at Brad Pitt.”

“But didn’t he—never mind,” David says. The _last_ thing he needs is to bring adoption into this conversation, what the _fuck_. “The point is, she doesn’t know about us, and I don’t want to tell her yet.”

“David—”

“ _Yet_ ,” David says. “It hasn’t even been a week, and her birthday is coming up, and I just—” He sighs. “I don’t want her tenth birthday to be overshadowed by this.”

Alexis makes a thoughtful noise. “But like, you know that she really likes you, right?” She’s twisting a lock of hair around her finger, a slow, repetitive motion in David’s peripheral vision. “Like, I’m pretty sure she’s not going to try to trip _you_ off of a ladder.”

“Okay, Stevie wasn’t _on_ the ladder,” David reminds her. “And Jamie didn’t actually want her to get hurt.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Alexis says. “I just mean that Jamie thinks you’re really cool, for some weird reason—”

“Thanks, fuck you too—”

“—and she’s probably going to be really happy that you’re her dad’s boyfriend.”

“Okay, well, _that’s_ a word we haven’t used—”

“David!” She swats at his arm again, hard enough to sting. “Can you stop being a nervous disaster for, like, two minutes?”

“Um, I don’t know,” David says. “Can _you_ stop being weirdly blasé about this?”

“David—”

“Look, this is _important_ , okay?” He takes a deep breath and lets it out, slow and carefully steady. “It’s really important,” he says, quieter. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“David,” Alexis says. “I don’t think you’re going to.” Her voice is low and almost painfully gentle, sincere in a way they’re still learning how to be together. David has to blink a bunch of times to keep the road from going blurry in front of him.

“Right,” he says firmly. “I’m _not_ going to fuck it up, because _you’re_ going to let me handle the narrative on this. And _you’re_ not going to fuck it up by telling Mom and Dad before I’m ready for them to know.” Alexis grumbles, and David raises his eyebrows. “I’m taking that as a binding agreement,” he informs her.

“Ugh, whatever,” Alexis says, but in the way where she means it. “Where else are we even going today?” She pulls the sample bag into her lap and rummages through it. “Bee-tee-dubs, we may need to circle back and get more of these peanut butter things from those old farm witches.”

“They were _Mennonites_ ,” David tells her for the millionth time. “And I would put the peanut butter square down.” He straightens in his seat, trying to channel the mature and responsible business-owner energy he’s going to need in order to woo Heather Warner. “We’re about to spend the afternoon sampling a _lot_ of cheese.”

***

After all of that, the realization that “Heather Warner, the mysterious and alluring cheese farmer” and “Heather, Ted’s hot new girlfriend with goats” are the same person is honestly a non-event. Like, oh, of course the one time David brings his sister on a buying trip, it’s to visit her ex-boyfriend’s hot new girlfriend’s goat farm. While David tries to negotiate a cheese exclusivity deal that will make or break their second quarter. Obviously. 

David spends the afternoon in a haze of anxiety, adrenaline, and sympathetic embarrassment. Even the cheese, which is both copious and phenomenal, barely makes an impression. Alexis is awkward and unnatural, making weird comments and fussing with her hair, and Heather is polite but clearly bewildered. And then Ted goes from being the elephant in the room to being the fourth person at the world’s most uncomfortable lunch—

“Well, if you are looking for a way to thank me, I know that David is looking for exclusivity on your products.”

—and Alexis gets Heather Warner to agree to the deal with Rose Apothecary.

She’s subdued in the car, staring out the window without making any effort to keep her hair falling at an appropriately flattering angle.

“Well, that went well,” David says, once the silence has ticked over from _horrifying_ into _unbearable_.

“Yeah,” Alexis says. Her voice is bright and almost correct, but she won’t look at him. She doesn’t even follow up with a snotty comment about how David never could have done it without her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. He’s trying to give her an opening, but she just sighs and keeps picking at the log of cheese in her lap.

“I just, like, hate how good this cheese is,” she says, which is, honestly, extremely fair. David kind of hates it too, on Alexis’ behalf.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” David doesn’t need to ask, not really, but he thinks maybe Alexis needs to be asked, needs to say it and have it be heard.

“Yes.” She’s still staring out the window but she doesn’t hesitate at all. “Yeah, I am.” 

David watches her out of the corner of his eye, studying the set of her shoulders, the line of her mouth. _I’m sorry_ , he doesn’t say. _I’m sorry_ and _I’m proud of you_ and _It’s going to be okay_ and _I believe in you_.

“Here,” he says instead, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “You should text Patrick, let him know that we got the deal.” He unlocks it with his thumb, preserving the fiction that Alexis doesn’t already know his password, and hands it over.

“Got the deal,” Alexis narrates, her thumbs flying, “mostly because of my AMAZING sister.” David makes a face but keeps his hands on the steering wheel. The phone buzzes in Alexis’ hands. “Awwww,” she says, “he must have been waiting for your text, what a cutie.” She doesn’t read the message out, though, just giggles and types a reply.

“Okay, um, do I get to know what he said?” The phone buzzes again. “Excuse me, Alexis?”

“Ugh, David, don’t be such a pain,” she says, continuing to type. “He says he knew that we could do it.”

“And?” David pokes her in the shoulder. “And what else?”  
  
“And that you should _celebrate_ later tonight,” she says. “Sounds _fun_ , David!”

“Okay, no.” David grabs blindly for the phone. “That’s quite enough of that, thank you _very_ much.” Helping Alexis get over a broken heart is one thing, but David draws the line at letting her sext with his—with Patrick. “Phone, please.”

“I’m just trying to _help_ , David, _god_ ,” Alexis says. David doesn’t even have to look over to know she’s smirking at him.

“Yes, well, your help is neither wanted nor necessary,” David informs her. “So you’ll have to find somebody else. Maybe Bob and Gwen?”

“David!”

“Oh, look, here we are, time for you to leave, _bye_.” David pulls into the motel parking lot with a spray of gravel and leans over Alexis to open her door, snatching the phone back at the same time. “Good _bye_ , Alexis.” 

“Whatever, David.” Alexis flounces out of the car, flipping her hair so that it smacks him in the face as she goes. “Enjoy your _special evening_.” She sashays up to the motel, waving at him over her shoulder, and disappears into their room.

David looks at his phone, which promptly buzzes with another text from Patrick: **When should I expect you?** David doesn’t bother answering, just taps quickly over to the phone app and presses CALL.

“David, hey!”

“It was Alexis,” David says. 

“Uh—”

“Texting with you, I mean,” David clarifies. “I was driving and she was all tragic about seeing Ted, so I asked her to text you.”

“I kind of figured,” Patrick says. “You don’t usually use that many emojis.” David feels his shoulders unknot, soothed by the warmth of Patrick’s voice.

“Well, good,” David says. “And I’m sorry if she said anything—weird.”

“Just that we should give her a gift basket as thanks for her support,” Patrick says. “Which is actually a good idea.” He pauses. “Also, did you say Ted? What was he doing there?”

“Dating Heather Warner, apparently,” David says. Patrick sucks in a breath. “Yeah, _exactly_.”

“Is Alexis okay?” Patrick sounds concerned, like he’s honestly worried about the emotional well-being of David’s bratty, flighty, annoying sister. David doesn’t think he’s ever been involved with anybody who was so uncomplicatedly _nice_ before. 

“Alexis is—she’ll be fine,” David says. “She’s not as helpless as she likes to pretend.”

“Well, and she’s got you,” Patrick says. “So that will help.” 

“I—you—” David shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Was I supposed to pretend that you _wouldn’t_ do literally anything for your family?” He says it like it’s no big deal, like it’s a simple fact of daily life: water is wet, the sky is blue, David Rose loves his family. “You’re a good person, David,” Patrick continues. “I—it’s important to me that you know that.”

“Yeah,” David says weakly. “I—you too, obviously.” Patrick’s laugh is warm and intimate, a small sound that echoes in David’s ears. “Anyway.” David clears his throat for no real reason. “If there was anything weird in the texts, that was her, not me. Was my point.”

“Noted,” Patrick says. “So should I expect you back at the store this afternoon, or do you need some time to recover from your ordeals?”

“Listen, this whole thing has been _very_ stressful,” David starts, but then the door to room six opens and his father emerges. “On the other hand, you know, I’d hate to leave you to cover the afternoon rush on your own, so I guess I’ll make that sacrifice.

“I mean—”

“Okay, sounds great, see you soon.” David hangs up without waiting for Patrick’s answer, drops the phone on the passenger seat, and slams the car into reverse.

“David!” His dad windmills his arms, huge and obvious. David cranes his neck to check his blind spots and pretends not to notice. “Son! David!” He runs out right in front of the car, forcing David to stop and roll down the window.

“Can I _help_ you?” David sticks his head out the window and glares at his father. “Because as the only member of this family with an actual _job_ , I was thinking I might, you know, go and do it.”

“Oh, of course, David.” Johnny nods. “I was just wondering if you’d seen any of the reporters from this morning.” He gestures at the empty parking lot. “They left before your mother got the chance to make her statement.”

David blinks.

“I was doing vendor visits all day,” he says blankly. “I wasn’t _here_.”

“Right, right.” Johnny frowns. “Well, if you happen to see any of them around town, do you think you could let them know that she’s ready to speak with the press?” There’s a garbled yell from inside the room. David can’t make it out, but it seems to make perfect sense to his father, who nods. “Reputable industry journalists preferred, of course.”

“I—sure,” David says. “Will TMZ do, or should I hold out for Variety?” His mother shouts something else, but David doesn’t wait for an interpretation. He pulls around his father and out into the road, heading for the Apothecary.

Patrick is waiting on the front steps of the store, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

“You got the deal,” he says, holding the door open and tugging David into the store. “You got it, David.”

“I did.” David lets himself be pulled. It’s dark and cool inside, and he blinks once, then twice, trying to adjust to the low light. “Six months trial period, but she agreed to the rates we proposed. It’s, here,” he says, shuffling the folder out of his bag and holding it out to Patrick. “It’s mostly the stuff we planned, but she had some interesting ideas about branding. I took notes.”

“Sounds great.” Patrick takes the stack of papers and drops them blindly on the cash behind him. “David—”

David is already leaning in for a kiss, frantic and messy and delicious. Patrick’s hands are everywhere: cupping David’s cheek, clutching at his shoulders, darting under the hem of his sweater to press against his lower back. Patrick bites at David’s lower lip, a quick fierce pressure that makes David’s bones ache with desire. David hears himself make a noise into Patrick’s mouth, raw and startled and needy. 

“Fuck,” Patrick says, pulling back. “Fuck, sorry, I just—” He swipes his thumb across David’s mouth, the drag of his fingerprints slow and deliberate against wet, sensitive skin. “I couldn’t—you’re so—I—”

“It’s all this talk of contracts, I know.” David curls his hands over Patrick’s shoulders and slides them down Patrick’s arms in slow, soothing motions. “How can I possibly expect you to control yourself?”

“Lead time,” Patrick says, his voice mock-sexy. “Procurement. _Fiduciary duty_.” He shudders theatrically, pressing himself against David. David’s answering gasp is only about 30% fake.

“Okay, but—here.” David takes a step back, holding Patrick’s shoulders so that he doesn’t follow. “Assuming that you don’t _actually_ want me to ravish you in broad daylight, you should probably—”

“I mean.” Patrick’s face is flushed, his eyes bright. “Not in _broad_ daylight, no.”

“I, uh.” David swallows hard, his mouth abruptly dry. “Sorry, are you saying—” He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “What are you saying?”

“We shouldn’t make a habit of it,” Patrick says. “But Wednesdays have been slow, so, I mean. We could…” He tips his head towards the back room, the curtain drawn across the doorway.

“I—” David takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Instead, it adds to the heat racing through his body, like wind whipping a brush fire into an inferno. 

“Or not,” Patrick says. “Sorry, that was probably—” His words slow as David steps away, then stop entirely as David flips the sign to CLOSED with quick, precise motions.

“What was that you were saying?” David raises an eyebrow. “Something about the back room?”

Patrick takes a breath, his eyes dark and intent, and lets it out slowly. He stays where he is for a long moment, turns on his heel and marches into the stockroom, head high, the curtain swinging back and forth in his wake.

David locks the front door and follows him.

Patrick is on him the second he passes the curtain. He drags David close, pressing kisses along his jawline, the corner of his mouth.

“We really shouldn’t,” he murmurs, but his hands are warm and insistent, pushing David back against the wall. “It’s not good practice,” he says, his mouth against David’s pulse. “Consistent opening hours are important for building customer trust,” as he undoes David’s jeans and shoves them down.

“I mean.” David swallows. “We don’t _have_ to—I can, I can wait.” Patrick drops to his knees and grins up at David, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “I can wait,” David says again, and tries hard to mean it. “Probably.”

“I believe you,” Patrick says. David feels the words as much as he hears them, a gust of warm, damp air against delicate skin. “But what if _I_ can’t wait?” And then he’s leaning in, wrapping his mouth around the head of David’s dick. 

David groans, letting his head drop back against the wall and biting his lip.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” he says, because Patrick _is_. He’s not showy or acrobatic, but his mouth is hot and wet and fucking _everywhere_ , all lush tongue and confident suction. David shivers, twisting a little against the steady weight of Patrick’s hands on his hips, desperate to move, but Patrick just tightens his grip and holds David steady, his mouth stretched obscenely around David’s dick. “Fuck,” David says again, and Patrick’s noise of agreement vibrates up through David like a bolt of lightning, immediate and incendiary.

“I want to—can you, here.” Patrick pulls back, his mouth scarcely a breath away from the head of David’s dick. “If you put your leg—” He slides David’s pants down the rest of the way, then lifts David’s thigh up, ducking down to put his shoulder underneath it. “Is this okay?”

He’s so serious, so intent, that David finds himself actually considering the situation before he answers.

“It’s—yeah.” He rocks his hips from side to side, evaluating. He’s a little unstable, like this, a little exposed, but his back is against the wall and he’s been keeping up with the yoga poses Jocelyn showed him. He can make this work. “I mean, not, like, forever, but—” 

“Don’t worry, David.” Patrick leans in until his lips are brushing gently against the crease of David’s leg. “I won’t keep you waiting.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just grins up at David, turns his head to the side, and sucks David back down.

At first, David can’t understand why Patrick wanted him like this. It’s good, but it’s not any different from what Patrick was doing before. Admittedly, that was spectacular, and David’s certainly not complaining, but still. Maybe it’s just a continued expression of Patrick’s appreciation for David’s thighs?

Then Patrick takes him slightly deeper and slides one hand back to rub the pad of his thumb over David’s asshole. It’s almost nothing, really, just a bit of friction and the barest hint of pressure, but it sends fire down David’s spine. Paired with the steady suction of Patrick’s mouth and the implacable weight of Patrick’s other hand on his hip, it’s devastating.

“Patrick, oh,” he gasps, rocking his hips as far as Patrick will let him. “Oh, fuck, please—”

“I really can’t fuck you here,” Patrick says, pulling off. He sounds wrecked already, his voice low and rough. His mouth is red and glistening in the dim light. “I really can’t—but I want it, David.” He leans in and bites David’s thigh, sharp and sudden. When he pulls back, he tilts his head so that David’s dick drags along his face, painting a sticky trail across his cheek. “I want it so much.”

“Another time.” David presses his hands flat to the wall in a desperate bid for balance. “Another time, any time, just, please, Patrick—” He breaks off, moaning, as Patrick takes him back down. It’s phenomenal: warm wet suction and the flutter of Patrick’s tongue, the slick insistent pressure of his fingers against David’s hole, intimate and urgent. David comes like that, caught between Patrick’s hands and his mouth, shivering and swearing and gasping for air. Patrick sucks him through it, bringing David right up to the edge of too much before pulling off. He doesn’t go far, just presses his lips against David’s thigh in a long, slow kiss.

“God, David.” His lips brush against the hair of David’s upper thigh, scratchy and electric. “Fuck, you’re so—” He shakes his head, kisses David’s leg again. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my line, actually,” David tells him, “but I’ll allow it.” He reaches down to cup Patrick’s cheek in one hand.

“You’re so generous,” Patrick says, turning his head so that his mouth presses against David’s palm. David knows it’s supposed to be a joke but it sounds so _sincere_ , so honest, like Patrick really means it, like he— 

David’s eyes prickle and he blinks hard. He bites the inside of his cheek until he can speak without his voice doing something deeply unfortunate.

“If that’s a ploy to get me to return the favor, it is _definitely_ going to work.” David slides his thigh down off Patrick’s shoulder and shifts his weight to ease the strain out of his hips. “Come on, up here, your turn.” He tugs at Patrick’s shoulders, rumpling the fabric of his boring, responsible button-down. 

Patrick laughs and stands, wincing a little as he comes up off his knees. He’s hard, his dick thick and obvious even through the heavy denim of his jeans, and he hisses out a low breath as David thumbs open the button and eases the zipper down. There’s a wet spot on his boxers and David rubs his thumb over it, relishing the slick slide of the material and the soft groan that Patrick makes.

“David—"

“I know, don’t worry, I’ve got you.” David turns them until Patrick’s against the wall. “Now you just stay here, and I’ll—” Patrick’s hand goes tight on David’s arm, keeping David from dropping to his knees. “Um?”

“Or, um.” Patrick bites his lip. “You could—your hands?”

“My hands?” David looks down at his hands, then back at Patrick’s face, his flushed cheeks, the white press of his teeth into his lower lip. “What about them?” He lifts one hand and drags the backs of his fingers down the side of Patrick’s face, savoring the way Patrick leans against them. His tongue darts out to lick over David’s knuckles, his rings. “What do you want me to do with my hands, Patrick?” 

“God, fuck, _David_ ,” Patrick says, shuddering in David’s arms. “I, everything, anything.” He meets David’s eyes and grins, dirty and embarrassed and excited. “Do you want a list?”

“Mmm, a _very_ interesting proposal, we’ll have to circle back to that,” David tells him. “But maybe for now, I’ll just jerk you off, how about that?” Patrick groans, shoving his dick against David’s wrist. “I’m taking that as a yes.” David slides his hand through the fly of Patrick’s boxers, wrapping his hand around Patrick’s dick and setting up a slow, indolent rhythm. 

“David, oh,” Patrick sighs, fucking into David’s fist. He’s leaking freely, hot and hard and slick in David’s hand. “I want—” 

“Tell me,” David says, curling his thumb over the head of Patrick’s dick. “What do you want?”

“Can you—your other hand?” Patrick ducks his head against David’s shoulder. “Sorry, that’s ridiculous, I just—” David can feel Patrick swallowing, the tiny movements of his throat next to David’s face. “Your rings.” His voice is muffled in the collar of David’s sweater but the words are unmistakable.

“You like the rings,” David says slowly. He’s putting Patrick’s stammered confession together with a few other things: the wet pressure of Patrick’s mouth on his fingers, the way Patrick watches his hands sometimes. “You have a, a thing, about the rings.”

“They’re just so—but you don’t have to,” Patrick says, cutting himself off. “This is great, you’re great, I don’t need—”

“Okay, sure, but you _want_ ,” David says. He gives Patrick one last lingering stroke with his right hand before he pulls back. “And that’s good enough.”

“David—”

“So if you can just—here, like that,” David says, moving around to press against Patrick’s other side. “And really, if you want the full effect, we should—” He tugs Patrick’s boxers down, easing them gently over his dick and tucking them under his balls. “There,” he says, smoothing the fabric down. “That’s nice.” It really is. The light gleams on David’s rings and on the head of Patrick’s dick, glistening wetly in the cradle of David’s fingers. “Is that what you were thinking of?”

“I, oh, fuck,” Patrick says, taking deep, gulping breaths. “I didn’t realize that you were a, oh, a switch hitter.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure we’ve already established that I don’t know anything about hockey,” David reminds him. He presses a kiss to Patrick’s temple. “But I _am_ ambidextrous, if that’s what you mean.” Not for everything—his left-handed handwriting is uneven and sloppy, and his eyeliner is never quite as good on that side—but for this, for sex, he’s always been flexible.

And god, it pays off. Patrick is frantic in his arms, gasping against David’s throat and fucking into David’s fist with short, desperate thrusts. David twists his wrist, pressing his thumb just under the head of Patrick’s dick, and Patrick makes a high, shocked noise, biting at David’s collarbone, messy and uncoordinated.

“You like this, don’t you,” David says, less a question than a statement of fact. “You like my hands on you, you like my rings, you like the way I touch you.”

“Gosh, how could you tell?” David drags his hand down Patrick’s dick, slow and exquisitely tight, wrenching a groan out of Patrick. “Yes,” Patrick gasps, “Yes, fuck, I like it, please, _David_ —”

“You should watch,” David tells him. “You should watch me touch you.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, his face pressed to David’s shoulder. “I don’t think—” He laughs, pulling back to meet David’s gaze with a rueful smile. “I don’t know if I can last, if I do that.”

“Then don’t last.” David tightens his grip, moves his hand faster, smooth and relentless. “Come for me, watch me make you come,” he says, “see how good you look with my hands on you.” He lifts his right hand to brush it against Patrick’s cheek, pressing gently until Patrick angles his head down. “Look, Patrick.”

“I, oh, _oh,_ ” Patrick says. His dick drips precome onto David’s fingers. “Oh, fuck, David, I need it, I need—”

“You have it,” David tells him. “It’s yours, whatever you want, take it.” Patrick moans, high and broken, and thrusts into David’s grip, fast and reckless. “I want you to come all over my hands,” David says, leaning in close to murmur directly into the curve of Patrick’s ear. “Get me all wet and sloppy like that.”

“David, fuck—”

“Do you want that, Patrick?”

“Yes, please, please,” Patrick gasps, fucking David’s fist. “David, I need it, please, oh—”

“Give it to me,” David says. Patrick does, coming into David’s hand, his body curling towards David even as his hips keep working frantically. David moves his hand gently, working Patrick through the aftershocks with slow, lazy strokes. “Beautiful,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the head of Patrick’s dick one last time just to make him shiver. “That’s so good, you’re so good, so—"

He loses the thread of his sentence when Patrick’s hand settles around his wrist; can only watch, transfixed, as Patrick opens his clean pink mouth and starts to suck his own come off of David’s slick fingers. 

“Oh my god,” David says, “no, no, don’t stop, keep going, you’re perfect, I’m going to die but you’re _perfect_ , how are you even real?” Patrick groans, blushing and looking away, but his tongue keeps working, sliding along David’s fingers in a slow, filthy glide. “God, _fuck_.”

Eventually it’s too much. David pulls his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, tasting come on Patrick’s tongue. He’s not going to get hard again, not yet, but it’s so good all the same: slow, drugging kisses, Patrick’s hands moving aimlessly along his sides, Patrick’s feet knocking into his, lazy and decadent. 

Reality intrudes in the form of a gentle chime from Patrick’s phone. David pulls back, giving Patrick space to pull the phone out of his pocket and silence it.

“New ringtone?” David hasn’t specifically noticed Patrick’s choice of phone settings or anything weird like that. It’s just that Patrick’s text alert noise is the same one that Stevie uses, a funny little coincidence. This is different, a tinny glissando of bells instead of the usual three-note chime.

“No, it’s—” Patrick bites his lip. “I set an alarm to remind me to get Jamie from school.”

“Right, okay,” David says slowly. “Because that definitely sounds like a you thing to do.” It really doesn’t, though. In almost six months of working together, David can’t think of a single time Patrick has even come _close_ to being late to get Jamie. “Unless,” David continues, piecing it together, “you were expecting to get distracted.” He tilts his head. “Or planning to distract _me_.”

“I mean,” Patrick blushes, caught out. His eyes are sparkling when he looks up at David. “Wednesdays have been really slow, and you did just get us a pretty important vendor.”

“I can’t decide whether that’s extremely devious,” David tells him, “or preternaturally responsible.”

“Well, you’ve got some time to think about that,” Patrick replies, tucking himself away and zipping his jeans back up. “I’ll be back in twenty.” He kisses David, swift and thorough, then steps away, only to pause at the curtain, looking back over his shoulder. “And maybe wash your hands?”

“Oh, fuck you,” David says, but he’s laughing.

***

Twenty minutes turns out to be just barely enough time for David to:

  * wash his hands,
  * spritz his shirt with some of the lavender and lemon freshening spray,
  * splash cold water on his face,
  * do two rounds of breathing exercises,
  * wash his hands again, and
  * unlock the front door of the store.



He’s at the cash when Jamie and Patrick come in, Jamie bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“David! Hi!” She rockets across the room like she’s on springs, fetching up against the edge of the cash and leaping up, balancing her weight on her hands. “Dad says you got the cheese lady to give you her cheese!”

“Jamie, if you knock the mints down, you’re picking them _all_ up,” Patrick warns from the doorway. Jamie rolls her eyes at David, but obediently drops back to the floor.

“Was it good cheese? Did she have any string cheese?”

“Jamie.”

“What?” Jamie turns to face her father, hands on her hips; the resemblance is overwhelming. “David said he’d ask!”

“She didn’t have any string cheese,” David says, “but I actually did bring something for you.” The bag is slightly squashed and a little warm, but Jamie takes it from him with the wide eyes and open mouth of somebody accepting an award.

“ _Cheese curds_ ,” she says, her voice reverent. “Dad, can I have some now? Please?”

“Didn’t you eat your snack today?”

“Well, yeah,” Jamie says, her voice appropriately withering, “but I didn’t know there were cheese curds.” She glances over at David. “David brought them _special_ for me,” she adds, “so it would be rude if I didn’t have any, probably.”

“I make a point never to argue with cheese,” David tells her, “but it’s your dad’s call.”

“You can have _a few_ ,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “And the rest are going right into the fridge for later.”

“Later when?” Jamie cocks her head, one hand already in the bag. “ _Dinner_ is later.” She pops a cheese curd in her mouth and chews aggressively. Patrick shakes his head, grinning.

“Will pasta salad be acceptable, your majesty?” Jamie nods, her cheeks puffed out with what is definitely more than just a few cheese curds. “Okay, fine,” Patrick says. “But if we’re going to have it in the salad tonight, you have to stop eating it, okay?”

“I’m done, I’m done.” Jamie swallows her faceful of cheese. “David, do you want to come to dinner?”

“I—”

“Jamie—” 

They speak at the same time, tripping over each other and stumbling into an awkward silence that has Jamie looking back and forth between them.

“Dad makes a really good pasta salad,” she tells David, as if that’s the determining factor, here. Over her shoulder, Patrick shakes his head, laughing silently. David can’t resist, can’t even pretend to want to.

“I love pasta salad,” he says, and tries to hide the shiver that goes through him at the look in Patrick’s eyes.

***

The rest of the day is easy. David does a quick pass of the store, straightening bottles and tidying displays, then settles at the cash to start sketching ideas for the new cheese table. Patrick settles at the counter with the folder of paperwork from David’s meeting and begins to draw up the formal agreements. They work in an easy silence, with pauses every now and then for Patrick to ask for clarification or to tease David about his handwriting. 

“It’s just that it really looks like you wrote—”

“Why would I say that her cheese was _gassy_?”

“Listen, my cousin is lactose intolerant, and—”

“Oh my _god_ , no, the cheese is _grassy_ , g-r-a-s-s—”

Jamie stores her bag of cheese curds in the back fridge and spreads out on the floor with a map of Canada and a plastic baggie of crayons. David thinks about telling her to set up at the table in the back—grade 5 homework isn’t exactly part of the Rose Apothecary brand—but he doesn’t. Wednesday afternoons have been really quiet, after all, and there’s something very charming about her small, round face, serious and intent as she turns the crayon to keep the edges crisp.

The afternoon passes in a quiet golden blur, the sun gradually sinking lower in the sky. David only realizes it’s time to close when Patrick leans against his side, looking down at David’s half-finished drawings of cheese.

“Looks good,” he says, his breath gusting over David’s ear. His hand presses against David’s back, just barely high enough to be businesslike and nothing more; David shivers anyway. “Do you want to sweep up, or do you want to count?”

“Um, neither?” Patrick digs his fingers in and David rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll sweep.”

“Sounds great,” Patrick says. “Jamie, five minute warning.” Jamie makes a good-natured noise of agreement and starts to pack up her bag. When David turns around, broom in hand, she’s right behind him, holding the dustpan.

“Here.” She crouches down next to David’s haphazard pile of dust. “I’ll help.”

“That’s—very kind of you,” David informs her, and she beams up at him.

Unsurprisingly, Jamie is careful and methodical, setting and re-setting the dustpan so that David can catch all of the grit and grime that’s been tracked into the store. It’s probably the most thorough sweep David’s done since the store opened. When they finish, Patrick is leaning against the cash, hands in his pockets, smiling at them.

“All set?”

“Your daughter is an excellent sweeping assistant,” David says, handing off the broom to Jamie so that she can put it away.

“Yes, her mother and I are very proud.” Patrick’s mouth folds in the hint of a smile. “You don’t have to come for dinner,” he adds, his voice low. “I mean, if you don’t—if you have plans, or—” 

“Um—” Behind Patrick, Jamie emerges from the stockroom, her backpack over one shoulder. “If you’re trying to get out of making me pasta salad, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“Dad!” Jamie ducks under Patrick’s arm and leans against his side, frowning up at him. “You can’t un-invite David from dinner!”

“I was just making sure he didn’t have other plans, bug.” Patrick ruffles her hair. “You didn’t really give him a chance to say no.”

“But he didn’t _want_ to say no,” Jamie replies. She rolls her eyes. “So it doesn’t _matter_.”

“I mean.” David shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

Patrick spreads his hands in helpless acceptance. “She’s a menace, is what she is,” he says. “Okay, fine, get your curds, let’s go make dinner.”

***

It should be awkward, cooking dinner in Patrick’s neat but slightly shabby kitchen. David has plenty of talents, no matter what Alexis says, but he also has enough self-awareness to admit that cooking is in no way one of them; his skills are strictly on the appreciation side of the table. 

Then again, to be fair, David doesn’t actually _cook_ anything, as such.

“I mean, it’s pasta salad,” Patrick says. “And I’ve got the pasta covered.” He tilts his head, grinning. “You think you can show David how to set the table, bug?”

“I know how to set a table,” David grumbles. He helps Jamie get the forks out of the appropriate drawer and makes sure that the placemats are lined up evenly. Even with his precise utensil placement, it’s an aesthetic nightmare. None of the placemats match—there’s one red-and-white check, one dinosaur themed, and one printed with a map of the world—and all of them clash terribly with the green tablecloth.

“You can have the dinosaurs,” Jamie tells him in a low voice. “That one’s mine, usually, but you can use it.”

“That’s—” David swallows, his throat unaccountably tight. “That’s very kind of you.”

Jamie shrugs. “Or you can have Dad’s, if you want.”

“The map,” Patrick clarifies, looking over his shoulder from where he’s chopping cherry tomatoes in half. “Jamie, can you grab your lunchbox?” She nods, disappearing into the living room, and it’s just David and Patrick, alone in the kitchen with a pot of water slowly coming to a boil.

“Sorry,” David says, after a long, awkward silence. “If this is—weird, for you, or whatever.”

“It’s not,” Patrick says instantly.

David makes a face. “Your lack of hesitation is flattering, and also not very believable.” It comes out sharper than he’d meant it, but Patrick just laughs.

“Okay, fair,” he says. He dumps a box of pasta shells into the water and stirs them gently. “I mean, yeah, it’s a little different, I guess, but it’s good.” He sets the wooden spoon next to the stovetop and turns, resting his hand on David’s shoulder, heavy and solid and reassuring. “I like it,” Patrick says, giving David’s shoulder a little squeeze. “I like it a lot.”

“What do you like?” David startles at the sound of Jamie’s voice, glancing anxiously between the two Brewers. He wonders, frantically, if he should move away from the warm, steady pressure of Patrick’s hand, or if that would just make things more obvious.

Patrick answers Jamie before David manages to come to a conclusion. “The tomatoes,” he says easily. “They’re really good; do you want one?”

“Yes, please!” Jamie opens her mouth wide, head tipping back to catch the cherry tomato that Patrick gently tosses to her. “Mmmm!” She nods, chewing.

“David, you want one?” Patrick holds a second cherry tomato up, eyebrows quirked.

“Yes, but I’m not a trained seal,” David informs him, “so I will _not_ be catching food in my mouth.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t hand the tomato over or put it on David’s plate. Instead, Patrick reaches out and presses it gently against David’s mouth, feeding it to David right there in the kitchen like that’s a perfectly normal thing for him to do. His thumb drags against David’s lower lip, rough and lingering, as he pulls his hand back, his eyes never leaving David’s face. “How is it?”

David bites down and the tomato explodes in his mouth, juicy and sweet. He takes his time chewing it; he’s not an animal, and it deserves his full consideration. 

“David?”

David swallows the last of the tomato. “Delicious, thank you,” he says, in a voice that is _very_ normal.

“The pasta’s boiling, Dad,” Jamie says. “Dad!”

Patrick hisses and spins around, stirring until the water is no longer threatening to spill over the rim of the pot. David turns back to Jamie, watching as she unzips a She-Ra lunchbox and dumps a tangle of plastic containers into the sink.

“I like your lunchbox,” he tells her. The resulting conversation about cartoons carries them safely through the rest of the cooking process.

The salad is simple but extremely good, bright and flavorful. David would feel bad about going back for thirds if Patrick and Jamie weren’t doing the exact same thing. They devour the whole bowl in what feels like no time at all, and soon Jamie’s loading dishes carefully into the dishwasher while Patrick wipes down the counters, a well-oiled routine that leaves the kitchen sparkling.

“Okay, Jamester,” Patrick says, once everything is set to rights. “What’s the homework situation like?”

“All done,” Jamie says easily. “I did the map at the store, and we didn’t have any math, and I’m way ahead on my reading log already.” She turns to David, cocking her head. “We could play Scrabble?”

“Jamie, David’s had a long day,” Patrick says. “He probably doesn’t want—”

“To reclaim my honor?” David narrows his eyes. “Oh, you just _wish_ that were true, don’t you.”

“I mean, if you’re _sure_.” Patrick shrugs with an elaborate lack of concern, his eyes gleaming. “We did kind of stomp you last time, so…” He glances at Jamie. “I guess you’ve got yourself a rematch, kiddo.”

“I still don’t play volleyball,” David says, and helps Jamie set up the board.

***  
An hour and a half later, David has lost at Scrabble again, by a margin that’s only slightly less embarrassing than last time.

He also has his back to the doorframe as Patrick kisses him, slow and deep and dirty, so he’s not really inclined to care.

“We should,” David says, between kisses, “we should, oh, mmm—” He loses the thread of his sentence, caught up in the shifting pressure of Patrick’s lips, the weight of Patrick’s hands on his hips, the strength of Patrick’s shoulders underneath his fingers. “Fuck.”

“We really shouldn’t,” Patrick says. His mouth quirks in a smile that David just has to taste, even while he’s rolling his eyes at the extremely dumb joke.

“No, but—” David steels himself and pushes Patrick away, creating a margin of space and sanity between their bodies. “We shouldn’t,” he says again. “Patrick, come on, you know we can’t.”

“Mmm, _do_ I know that?” Patrick presses against David’s hands, leaning in to ghost a kiss over David’s jaw, sweet and tender and completely fucking unfair. David closes his eyes and bites down on the inside of his cheek, breathing in through his nose until his pulse has settled somewhat.

“Patrick—”

“No, no, you’re right.” Patrick shakes his head, pulling away with another featherlight kiss. “I—sorry,” he says. “I just really want—but you’re right.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, giving David’s hip a parting squeeze.

“I mean, I _also_ want,” David tells him. “I _definitely_ want, it’s just—” He tips his head towards the second floor, where Jamie has retreated under instructions to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. “She’s probably waiting for you.”

Patrick shrugs. “She’s got a new book about the Bermuda Triangle, so I think she’s good.” He reaches out, brushing the backs of his knuckles against David’s cheek. “You know I’d ask you to stay, though, right? If things were different?” His eyes are dark and intent in the dim light of the hallway, pinning David in place just as surely as his hands did.

“I—” David blinks twice, hard, fighting back the urge to drag Patrick towards him. _Careful_ , they’re being _careful._ “But they aren’t, so.” He presses a kiss to the edge of Patrick’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, stepping away from those hands, that gaze, this man who’s watching him like he can see every thought in David’s brain and wants to know more.

“Tomorrow,” Patrick echoes, rocking back onto his heels. “Good night, David.”

“Good night.” David grabs his bag and flips the lock, opening the front door—then pauses, one hand on the knob. “I’d say yes,” he says. His voice is strange even to his own ears, full of some emotion he can’t afford to look at too closely. “If you asked me to stay, I’d say yes.”

“I know,” Patrick says, and the solid certainty in his voice follows David all the way back to the motel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #1: This chapter contains the one semicolon in the entire story that I was specifically instructed to keep! Can you find it?
> 
> Fun Fact #2: While I was writing, I kept a master document with a summary of what happened in every chapter. The summary for chapter eight was _Visit Heather Warner, filthy handjob, # erotic pasta salad_.


	9. Chapter 9

“Ugh, David,” Alexis says, tossing her hair. “I already told you, I don’t _know_ where your stupid undereye serum is!” She raises an eyebrow at him. “And honestly, I don’t think it’s strong enough for your whole—situation, there.” Her gesture covers David’s entire body, which, _rude_.

Not unfair, though. David looks back in the mirror and sighs. 

“I’ve just had a really stressful week.” He frowns at the circles under his eyes, the dry skin along his jawline, the limp line of his hair. 

“Mmm, but have you, though?” 

“Go juggle knives.”

“Look, I’m just saying, you’ve got a super-cute boyfriend who is, like, embarrassingly into you,” Alexis says. “And a successful store, and a brand new cheese contract, and _me_ for your sister.” She leans against David’s back, looking over his shoulder to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Do you have a point?” David glares at Alexis, who flicks him on the ear. “Fuck you!”

“My _point_ , David,” she says, “is that your life is honestly really good right now, and you need to stop getting all in your head about it.” She bumps her head against his. “It’s like when I was skydiving with The Rock, and he was freaking out about his parachute not opening—”

“Great example, _very_ reassuring—”

“—but it was _totally fine_.” Alexis rests her hands against his upper arms, her awkward little claw-hands digging into the fabric of his Givenchy polo. “Just like you’re going to be fine, you moron.” She steps back, tugging at David’s shoulders until he turns, and boops him gently on the nose. “But definitely do fix your hair first,” she adds. “ _Yikes_ , David.”

“Thanks _so_ much.” David rolls his eyes as she flutters out of the room. “Really, you’re too kind.” He turns back to the mirror, determined to deal with his hair.

It’s still not looking great, but he gets it looking acceptable, at least. David glances down at his phone and grimaces when he sees the time. It’s already eleven fifty, which means they’ll need to leave soon if they’re going to be there on time. Somehow, he suspects that this isn’t the kind of party where arriving fashionably late is _de rigueur._

He pulls up his text chain with Stevie, but she still hasn’t said anything since she sent him a gif of a skeleton in a top hat last night. It’s all messages from David: **raise your hand if you’re ready for a day of stupidly domestic bullshit** when he woke up; **leave at 11:45 y/n?** after breakfast; **you did get her a present right?** immediately after that. **ready whenever you are** , he types out.

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one. That’s okay; he knows how to deal with Stevie.

Giving his hair one last desultory poke, he grabs the essentials—his phone, his keys, the envelope that’s been tucked in the frame of the mirror for the past month—and goes to find her in the front office.

Stevie is—she looks—David stops cold, appalled.

“Well _you’re_ a hot mess,” he tells her. Stevie glares at him weakly, but whatever, it’s not like he’s _wrong_. She’s collapsed in a heap on the couch, her hair a wreck, her shirt buttoned incorrectly. “What the fuck, Stevie?”

“You know, I don’t think I can go after all.” Her voice is flat and expressionless. “There’s so much to do at the motel, and, uh, guests, and cleaning.” She rolls her head to the side, gesturing limply at the wrapped package sitting on the counter. “Give that to Jamie, and tell everybody that I’m sorry, but I can’t go.”

“Um, yeah,” David says. He spares a glance at the present, but leaves it in favor of dropping onto the couch next to Stevie. “I’m going to go ahead and _not_ do that.” Stevie gives him another anemic glare, but flops bonelessly onto his shoulder. David starts to card his hands through her hair, smoothing out the tangles. “Seriously, though, did something happen? I thought things were good.”

“Oh, things are _wonderful_ ,” Stevie says dully. “I’m dating an amazing woman whose daughter hates my guts. And now I have to go to her birthday party and try to make her like me, which is obviously a major strength of mine.” She grins, a horrible fake expression, more baring her teeth than anything else. “I feel _great_ about this, David.”

“Okay, well, to start with, maybe don’t make that face.” David tucks Stevie’s hair behind her ears. “I feel like _not_ making that face is a good first step for you, here.”

“Fuck you,” Stevie says, but she tips her head enough to rest her forehead against David’s shoulder. Her breath puffs out over his chest in uneven bursts. “Fuck, this is a terrible plan, what the fuck am I doing?”

“Hey.” David ducks down. “Hey, Stevie.” He cups a hand under her chin and steers her face up until she meets his eyes. “If you really don’t want to go, we can cancel.”

“No,” Stevie says, immediate and instinctive, more animated than she’s been all morning. “No, that’s stupid, David, you can’t—”

“We _can_ ,” he says, not letting her squirm away. “Seriously, Stevie, say the word and I’ll text Patrick right now.”

“Shut up, don’t be dumb,” she tells him. “This is important to you.”

“Yeah, well.” David shrugs. “So are you.” Stevie sticks her tongue out at him and he makes a face back. “Seriously, though,” he adds, “ _do_ you want to bail?”

“...no,” Stevie says eventually. “I don’t want to bail; I just want it not to suck. Because it’s going to _suck_ , David,” she says, sitting up out of her depressive slouch. “I’m going to be awkward, because of who I am as a human being. And Jamie’s going to resent me being there, which is totally legit, and Rachel—” She rolls her eyes. “Rachel’s going to want to _fix_ it.”

“I mean.” David cocks his head. “That’s a good trait in a doctor, probably.”

“Fuck you.” Stevie elbows him in the ribs. “No, I mean she’s going to want to, I don’t know, brainstorm ways to make Jamie magically decide I don’t suck, and, like—” She spreads her hands helplessly. “That’s not going to happen!”

“Well, but to be fair, I do honestly think that Jamie will really like you, once—”

“No, see, that’s exactly it.” Stevie pokes him in the chest. “You can’t logic your way into making her like me. It’s either going to happen or it isn’t, and in the meantime it’s just going to be shitty and awkward.” She shrugs. “That’s how it works, David. Some things can’t be fixed.”

“Okay.” David leans his shoulder against Stevie’s. “And just to be clear, the bottle of bourbon under my bed—would that be considered me trying to fix things?”

“That,” Stevie informs him, “would be considered _medicinal_.” 

“Oh, of course.” They sit in silence for a moment, two hot messes propping each other up on a sagging couch. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” David tells her. “But if you want to go, we should probably go soon.”

“ _Want_ is such a strong word, really,” Stevie says, but she sits forward, stretching her arms out over her head. “But yeah, let’s go.” She shoots David a sidelong glance, a credible attempt at her usual wry humor. “How do I look?”

“Well, your shirt is buttoned wrong and inside out,” David tells her, “but you can fix that in the car.” He holds his palm out, waiting, and Stevie hands over the keys with a sigh. “And other than that—” He shrugs. “It’s a kid’s birthday party, not a bar,” he tells her. “The only person you could possibly pick up was interested in you when you were half-concussed and covered in paint, so I think you’ll be okay.” He holds the door open for Stevie, but she doesn’t follow. When he turns around, she’s in the middle of the office, frozen with her hands on her shirtfront. “Stevie?”

“This is _weird_.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re like, I don’t know, a functional adult or something.”

“Well, _one_ of us has to be,” David reminds her. “It can be your turn tomorrow.”

Honestly, it does help. Having Stevie to focus on means that David doesn’t have time to think about the butterflies in his own stomach, the queasy roil of nerves and anticipation that kept him up _far_ too late last night, choosing and rejecting outfits by the dozen. Instead, he keeps up a steady flow of heckling and reassurance, keeping Stevie distracted as they make their way to Patrick’s house.

David parks behind Patrick’s sensible sedan, next to an unfamiliar car with Ontario plates. There’s a bunch of balloons tied to the front doorknob and a sign taped to the door. _JAMIE’S PARTY OUT BACK!!!_ The handwriting is Patrick’s tidy print, but the excessive punctuation looks like Jamie’s handiwork.

“Well?”

Stevie looks, if not polished, at least presentable, with all of her clothing attached correctly. More than that, though, she looks steady and determined, her head held high, her jaw set.

“Ready,” she says. “Let’s go.”

David has seen the backyard at Patrick’s house before, but never in daylight. It’s nothing special, really, just an uneven rectangle of grass with a hedge along the back. 

Towards the middle of the yard, there’s a folding table with balloons tied to the legs, holding a promising array of covered dishes. Rachel is crouched down by one leg of the table, grimacing and muttering under her breath; at the other end, Jamie is talking animatedly with two people who must be her grandparents. David’s eyes go immediately to Patrick, bent over a grill tucked against the side of the house. He’s wearing a pair of worn jeans and a gray t-shirt, and the line of skin showing at the small of his back is—it’s—David shakes his head and looks away, towards safer sights.

Next to David, Stevie hisses out a slow, tense breath.

“It’s fine,” David murmurs to her. “It’s going to be fine.” She shoots him a narrow, unimpressed look, but squares her shoulders.

“Oh, hey!” Rachel spots them and stands up, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Stevie! David!” She turns to Jamie. “Hey, bug, want to say hi to your guests?”

Jamie looks up and beams. “David!” She dashes over and flings her arms around him. “You came!”

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” David tells her. Jamie looks up, her head tilted.

“Well, you were a little late,” she points out, “but Dad said that you’re late a lot and that I shouldn’t take it personally.” Stevie does a very poor job muffling her laugh, which, fuck _her_. “It’s okay, though,” Jamie continues blithely. “Dad’s still lighting the grill, and then it has to heat up, and then we have to cook the burgers to seventy-one degrees Celsius, so there’s time.” She leans back in for another hug. “Thanks for coming to my party!”

“Yes,” Rachel says, coming up behind Jamie. “Thank you both so much for coming.” She puts the smallest hint of emphasis on the word _both_ , one hand resting on her hip, her eyebrows raised. Jamie looks back at her mom, sighs, and detaches from the hug, looking over at Stevie.

“Thank you for coming to my birthday party, Stevie,” she says. She doesn’t do a very good job selling it, but, well. She’s young, still. She’s got plenty of time to learn.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Stevie says, equally unconvincing. “Here,” she adds, holding out her gift. “This is for you.”

“As is this,” David says, holding up his envelope. “Is there somewhere we should put them?”

“On the table,” Jamie says. “I’ll put them with the others.” She takes both gifts and goes to the far end of the table, adding them carefully to a small pile of wrapped gifts.

“Sorry,” Rachel says to Stevie with a dismayed little frown. “We talked about it last night, but—”

“It’s okay,” Stevie says, cutting her off. “Seriously, don’t worry about it, I’m fine.” She leans in and gives Rachel a kiss, quick but not hurried. “Hi,” she says, pulling back.

“...hi,” Rachel says, and wraps an arm around Stevie’s waist, her scowl melting into a smile. “And hi to you, of course, David,” she adds. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” David says. “Thanks for having me.” He looks over her shoulder, there and then away, but Patrick shows no signs of leaving the grill.

“Patrick should be done soon,” Rachel says. 

“Oh, I wasn’t—” David starts, then gives up in the face of Rachel’s raised eyebrow, her knowing grin. “Thanks,” he says instead.

“David!” Jamie comes back, pulling her grandparents behind her like the world’s most determined tugboat. “These are my grandparents, Grandma Marcy and Grandpa Clint.” She gestures to each of them in turn, then to David. “This is David, he works with Dad at the store and he’s my friend.”

“Oh, David! We’ve heard so much about you!” If Clint and Marcy Brewer are confused as to why David is invited to a family birthday party, they don’t show it. Clint shakes his hand, beaming, and Marcy wraps him up in an enormous hug.

“All of it good, I hope,” David says, and hopes the words come out self-deprecating rather than insecure.

“I mean,” Patrick says, coming up behind his parents. “I did tell them about the toilet plungers, David.”

“Which demonstrates _my_ impeccable taste, and _your_ inability to let a joke go,” David snaps. “Frankly, I don’t think I’m the one who has to be embarrassed about that story.” The second the words come out of his mouth, he regrets them—Patrick’s parents are _right there_ , what was he _thinking?_ —but Marcy bursts out laughing.

“Ohhh, he’s got your number, kiddo,” she says, turning around and pulling Patrick into a hug of his own. “He’s got your number _good_.” She scrubs her hand through Patrick’s hair; Patrick makes a face but lets her. “He’s always had a bit of a hard time letting things go,” she tells David, grinning. “Jokes, arguments, his favorite sweatshirt…”

“Yeah, he’s a stubborn one,” Clint says. “Unlike anybody else in this family.” He meets David’s eyes, his face expressionless but his eyes sparkling with hidden mischief. “I just don’t know _where_ he gets it from.”

“Watch it, mister,” Marcy says, but her whole face is creased with unselfconscious laughter. She gives Patrick another squeeze, her arm around his shoulder. It’s the kind of easy affectionate gesture David’s seen Patrick do with Jamie a thousand times, and Patrick leans into it in exactly the same instinctive way.

“I actually came over to tell you all that the grill should be ready in a few minutes,” Patrick says. “Unless you’d rather keep picking on me, that is.”

“Oh, _Patrick_.” Rachel’s eyes are gleaming. “What makes you think we can’t do both?” She looks down at Jamie. “What do you think, bug? Can we make fun of Dad and make some burgers at the same time?”

Jamie tilts her head, considering. “We _can_ ,” she says, “but the burgers are more important.”

“You’re a good kid.” Patrick reaches out to ruffle her hair. “I think we’ll keep you.”

“Daaaaad,” Jamie groans. “Come on, let’s make burgers!”

The ‘making’ of the burgers turns out to be a lot more literal than David was expecting: Patrick ducks into the house and emerges with a bowl of raw meat mixed with...things.

“Um, I don’t know,” Patrick says, when David asks him. “Bread crumbs, egg, Worcestershire sauce, some garlic powder?” He shrugs. “Whatever we had in the kitchen, basically. There’s not a recipe or anything."

“Dad makes the _best_ burgers,” Jamie says loyally. “ _Everybody_ says so.”

“Oh...kay.” David does his best to keep his face steady. “It’s just, normally when I have a burger, it’s already shaped like, um.” He sketches out a flat disc with his hands. “Like a burger?”

“Right,” Jamie agrees, “but this way everybody gets to make their own, so that we can have the size of burger that we like best.” She looks up at Patrick, her brow furrowed. “We should wash our hands first, though, Dad,” she tells him. “Otherwise we could get sick.”

“Good point,” Patrick says. “Okay, everybody inside.”

One trip to the sink later, David’s not any more sure about this endeavor.

“So we just...grab some meat,” he says. “And make it into a burger.”

“Yup!” Patrick’s grinning at him, clearly enjoying David’s manifest _lack_ of enjoyment. “It doesn’t need to look good to be a solid burger.” He makes a _disgusting_ gesture, mashing his hands together with a twist at the wrists. “Just gotta really get in there and smoosh everything up real good.”

“Right, sure,” David says. He looks over at the rest of the group, but they’re all wrist-deep in raw meat, clearly unfazed by this disgusting development.

“I’ll help you, David,” Jamie says. “If you don’t want to touch the meat.”

“Oh, no,” David says. “You don’t have to—” He glances back at the bowl and sighs. It honestly does look vile. “Are you sure?”

Jamie nods, her face grave. “Olivia doesn’t like to touch the meat either, so I make her burgers for her. Now,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “Do you want a big burger, or a _really_ big burger?”

“Oh, really big, definitely,” David says. He ignores the look Patrick is giving him, the way it makes his lungs ache.

***

The burgers—each one cooked to a Jamie-approved 71˚C—are delicious.

“Oh my _god_ , Patrick,” Stevie says. “These are _so good_.” She’s talking with her mouth full, which is disgusting, but the burgers are good enough that David lets it slide for once.

“Well, this has been fun,” Marcy says, wiping her hands on her napkin. “But I guess we should probably hit the road, right dear?” She looks over at Clint. “Unless there was anything else we needed to do here.” Jamie’s head pops up from where she’s been buried in a mountain of potato salad, visibly outraged, but Marcy gets her before she can say anything. “Wipe your mouth, sweetie, that’s right,” she says, muffling whatever comment Jamie was about to make behind a fistful of paper napkins.

“Mmm, no,” Clint says, mock-thoughtful. “I think that was it—just a cookout with the family, right?” He glances at Patrick. “Patrick, did you have anything else on the agenda?”

Patrick shrugs. “I mean, I was thinking about mowing the lawn later,” he says, “but there’s no reason you need to stick around for that.”

“You mowed the lawn on _Tuesday_ , Dad,” Jamie says, fighting her way free of the napkin assault and rolling her eyes ferociously. “And it’s my birthday!”

“Oh, is it?” Patrick frowns. “That would explain the balloons, I guess.”

“Yeah, and the _presents_ ,” Jamie tells him witheringly, “and the _birthday cake_ that’s in the fridge.”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Marcy says, shaking her head. “That cake said HAPPY TENTH BIRTHDAY. Are you ten years old?”

“Yes!”

“Nuh-uh, you can’t possibly be ten years old,” Rachel puts in. “I was there; that wasn’t ten years ago.”

“Yeah, there’s no way you’re ten years old,” Patrick agrees. “That would make us…” He looks at Rachel and grimaces. “ _Really_ old.”

“No, I’m ten!” Jamie crosses her arms and glares at her parents. “I’m _ten_ , you guys!”

“Are you _sure_?” Marcy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think that’s right. Weren’t you seven last year?” She turns to Clint. “She was seven, right?”

Clint frowns. “Huh, I thought she was six.”

“I was _nine_ last year! And now I’m ten! Ugh!” Jamie shakes her head in despair, looking at David. “They’re the _worst_.”

“You have my complete sympathy,” he tells her, reaching across the table to pat her on the shoulder. “You know, maybe we should just go inside and get started on that cake.”

“It’s your birthday, after all,” Stevie puts in. “You don’t have to share with people who don’t respect that.”

Jamie gives Stevie a narrow, evaluating stare, then nods. “You’re right,” she says. “ _I’m_ going inside to eat my birthday cake,” she announces loftily to her family, who are all doing a very poor job of stifling their laughter. “And I’m only sharing with people who aren’t _ridiculous_.” She looks around the table. “Right now, that’s just David.” She hesitates, then adds a reluctant, “and Stevie, I guess.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Patrick says. “Are you sure David isn’t ridiculous?”

“Not about cake,” David says. “I never joke about cake.” He stands up and holds an arm out to Jamie. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Jamie says firmly. She comes around the table and hooks her hand around his arm.

“Stevie?” She joins David on his other side. Together they troop up to the house, leaving the collected Brewers laughing in their wake.

“You know they’re just making fun, right?” David looks down at Jamie, keeping his voice low so that her family won’t hear. “They didn’t really forget it was your birthday.”

“Obviously not.” Jamie rolls her eyes. “They just think it’s funny to pretend.” She smiles up at him. “Thanks for being normal."

“Well, _that’s_ a bit of a stretch,” David says, “for Stevie, at least. Ow!” he adds, when Stevie retaliates with a vicious pinch on his arm.

“You know, I don’t _have_ to share my cake with _anyone_ ,” Jamie says, holding the door open. “I think you should _both_ remember that.”

The cake is rich, dense chocolate with a generous helping of frosting. David cuts them pieces under Jamie’s careful supervision.

“So, inside or outside?” he asks, only to find the door to the yard blocked by a crowd of penitent-looking Brewers.

“We’ve given it some consideration,” Patrick announces, “and we’ve agreed that you’re almost definitely ten years old.” Behind him, the others nod. David looks over at Jamie, who puts her cake down in order to cross her arms over her chest.

“And?” she prompts. “Anything else?”

Rachel takes over. “And we’re very sorry for teasing you,” she says. “We’re done now.”

“Are you _sure?_ ” Jamie looks unimpressed.

“Well, we’re sure we want some cake,” Clint says, then winces when Marcy steps on his foot. “I mean, yes, we’re definitely sure that we’re done being ridiculous.”

Jamie looks up at David. “What do you think?”

“Well.” David taps a finger against his chin, considering. “Speaking from experience, that’s probably too much cake for the three of us.” He shrugs. “You might as well let them help.”

“I don’t know, David,” Stevie says, already digging into her cake. “It’s a really good cake. And didn’t you once eat a whole—”

“Okay, well, nobody needs to hear _that_ story,” David says hurriedly. “What do you think, Jamie?”

“I think—” Jamie looks back at her family. Rachel is biting her lip and twisting her hands together, Patrick has his fingers crossed, and Clint is clinging to Marcy’s arm, his eyes closed. “They can have some cake, I guess,” she announces. “Because I’m nice.” 

The Brewers cheer and pile into the kitchen. In the clamor, Patrick squeezes David’s arm, a quick tight pressure just above the elbow, there and then gone as Patrick moves around the room to get more plates. _Thanks,_ Patrick mouths over Jamie’s head, and David has to look down at his cake to hide his smile.

After cake, it’s time for presents. Jamie goes for her parents’ presents first: several books, a new sweatshirt, some sort of puzzle toy filled with ball bearings. There’s a fistful of gift cards from various relatives, aunts and uncles and cousins whose names pass through David’s head without making any particular impression. 

“Oh, that one’s from me, actually,” Marcy says, as Jamie starts to tear into the next package. “Well, and your grandpa, but—”

“A new glove!” Jamie drops the baseball glove in the pile of wrapping paper and practically leaps over the table to hug Marcy. “Thanks, Grandma!”

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Marcy says, pulling Jamie close. “And maybe later we can go out and start breaking that sucker in, hmm?” She looks up at Patrick, her eyes twinkling. “I guess your dad can help us out, if he hasn’t forgotten everything I taught him.”

“Wow, okay.” Patrick rolls his eyes. “Not all of us are retired, you know.” 

“Ah yes, ‘work’,” Marcy says. “The classic excuse.”

Patrick looks over at his dad and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Was she always like this? I don’t remember her always being like this.” Clint gives him a flat look, then turns pointedly away to face the other end of the table.

“So, _David_ ,” he says, ignoring the outpouring of laughter from his wife and son. “How’s the store doing?”

“Oh, you know, thriving,” David says, pitching his voice to be heard over the noise. “We secured an exclusivity deal with a new cheese supplier recently, so that’s very exciting for us.”

“Yeah, Jamie told us about that!” Clint beams. “What great news for you two.”

“It’s really good cheese,” Jamie pipes up. “Or at least the cheese curds are.”

“We’ll send you some,” Patrick promises. “David, I don’t have my phone, can you make a note to—”

“Already done.” David holds up his phone, open to the running list of special requests and gifts he’s started keeping. Patrick gives him a thumbs-up in return, the sort of hopelessly _dad_ gesture that David nevertheless finds disgustingly charming.

“And this one is from—oh!” Marcy looks up and beams. “It’s from Stevie!” David does a very good job of keeping a straight face as Stevie’s fingers dig into his thigh. “Here, Jamie,” Marcy continues blithely. “Why don’t you open it?”

“Sure,” Jamie says, taking the package. To her credit, she opens it with a decent amount of enthusiasm, although that could also just be the inherent satisfaction of shredding wrapping paper; either way, David respects it. “It’s... a book.” She holds it up so they can all see. “ _Buried in Ice_.”

“It’s about the Franklin expedition,” Stevie says uncertainly. “Which, I don’t know if you’ve learned about it in school yet? It was this explorer who wanted to find a water route through the Arctic, but the whole expedition was lost and it was this giant mystery for, like, centuries.” She swallows. “And, uh, your mom said you liked learning about weird shi—stuff, uh, in history.”

David glances around the table. Marcy and Clint look politely bemused; Rachel looks nervous; Jamie looks skeptical. Patrick is turned to face Jamie, so David can’t get a good look at his face, but the set of his shoulders is relaxed, easy.

“There’s a song about it, bug,” he says. “Remember?” He clears his throat and starts to sing, his voice mellow and clear. “ _Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage, to find—”_

“The Hand of Franklin!” Jamie’s eyes go wide. “But I thought you said they never found the boats, Dad!”

“They did,” Stevie says, “but only a couple of years ago, and they’re still trying to figure out why exactly they all...died.” She trails off, looking around at the adults and wincing slightly. “Anyway, it’s a neat story, I thought you might like it, but it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Jamie says firmly, “no, that’s—that sounds cool, maybe.” She looks up at Stevie, visibly steeling herself. “Thanks.”

“You’re...welcome.” Stevie looks more than a little shell-shocked. “I—yeah.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” Marcy says. “Happy Birthday, Jamie—oh.” She picks up a familiar envelope, holds it out to Jamie. “Looks like there’s one more.”

“I, uh, yeah,” David says, as Jamie takes the envelope with a little frown. “That one’s from me.” Jamie slides a finger under the flap and rips the envelope open. David bites his lip, watching her face as she unfolds the letter. 

David went back and forth on the letter itself, a dozen drafts torn into pieces and hidden in the trash. He wanted to make it elegant, something that would be a pleasure for Jamie to open, but then he worried about the calligraphy—what if she can’t read it? _He_ could have read it at age ten, but he also knew the difference between a half and a full Windsor knot, how to spell Balenciaga, how to mix a martini. It’s possible that some of David’s childhood experiences were a little niche.

In the end, though, he opted for the calligraphy, and it doesn’t seem to give Jamie any trouble. She reads the letter out, her voice clear and confident.

“‘ _This certificate entitles Jameson Grace Brewer to ten lessons in the processes of—’_ ” She breaks off, her eyes wide, and stares at David. “Really, David?” He nods. “Oh my God!” Before he can even register the movement, she’s dropping the letter and flinging herself out of her seat, pelting around the table to throw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you so much, this is _so cool_."

“‘ _Dyeing, spinning, and weaving_?’” Marcy holds up the letter. “Well, that sounds interesting.”

“It’s—”

“It’s _so cool,_ Grandma,” Jamie says, cutting David off. She’s still curled against his side. “There’s this farm with this family and they raise _worms_ that make _silk_ and then they turn the silk into _thread_ and they make _shawls_ and _scarves_ and—do you have a picture, Dad?” 

“Um, I might—”

“Never mind, David does,” Jamie says. She grabs David’s phone, face-down on the table, and hands it to him to unlock. “And they’re really pretty and soft and I’m going to get to make one? Really?”

“Definitely,” David tells her, scrolling through his photos. “Possibly more than one, I’m not sure.” He finds a picture of the display of shawls, the one Jamie still checks over every time she comes in the store. “Here, that’s a good picture.” He gives the phone back to Jamie, who holds it out for her grandparents to see.

“ _I_ set up that display,” Jamie says. “Or, well, I did it the first time, before the store was open. David does it now, because I have school most of the time.” Clint and Marcy make appropriately appreciative noises and Jamie hands the phone back to David. “Thank you so much, David,” she says, hugging him again. “That’s really cool.”

“Well, I’m glad you like it.” David lets his hand rest on her back. “Mrs. Beaulieu is very excited to teach you.” He looks up and meets Patrick’s gaze. “You can figure out the scheduling with her directly, but she said anything except Thursday nights would be fine.” He raises an eyebrow. “Apparently she has a bingo game.”

“Well, we can’t interfere with bingo,” Patrick says. “I’ll give her a call next week, see what we can do.” He looks down at Jamie and smiles. “Hey, kiddo, do you want to let David breathe sometime this year?”

“He can breathe fine,” Jamie says huffily. “I’m not _strangling_ him.” She does pull back, though, looking up at David with an enormous smile. “Thank you, David,” she says again.

“You’re very welcome,” David says. Hiis throat is unaccountably scratchy. “I’m glad you’re excited.” 

“Well!” Rachel stands up from the table, brushing her hands on her jeans. “What do you think, bug? An acceptable birthday?”

“Very acceptable,” Jamie says. “Thank you, everybody!” She looks around with a face full of eager anticipation. “Now what?”

“Well, I promised Grandma June we’d FaceTime her,” Rachel says. “And then maybe you and your dad want to play a little baseball with Grandma Marcy?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Patrick says. “Here, I’ll get started on the dishes.” His voice is level, easy, but his eyes are hot on David’s skin.

“I’ll give you a hand,” David says, hurrying to stand up. “With the dishes, I mean.” He dodges the kick Stevie aims at his ankle and starts collecting plates.

They make it back to the house like normal people; David even manages to get his stack of plates safely onto the counter. Then Patrick is on him, crowding David up against the refrigerator and kissing him frantically.

“Fuck, David,” he gasps, pulling away for a second. “You’re so—” He interrupts himself with a shake of his head and another long, messy kiss, his hips pressing insistently against David’s.

David wants, so much, to lose himself in this moment: the movement of Patrick’s mouth against his, the hint of teeth, the flicker of tongue. Patrick’s hands rest at David’s waist, the warmth of him scorching through the thin fabric, and then he’s tugging David’s shirt out of the way to put those hands directly against David’s skin, scratching gently at the small of David’s back with his blunt nails. David wants to put his hands everywhere—around Patrick’s back, on his arms, in his hair—but winds up looping them around Patrick’s neck as Patrick presses close for another long, drugging kiss.

Eventually, though, he slides his hands to Patrick’s shoulders to lever their bodies apart.

“You know we—”

“—can’t, yeah, I.” Patrick takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose. “I know.” 

“I mean, I’m not _complaining_ ,” David says. “And if we weren’t, you know, literally at your daughter’s birthday party, I would definitely—” Patrick bites his lip, his eyes hot and dark, and David wants to, he wants to—but he can’t. They can’t. They’re being _responsible_.

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “And I have to play baseball after this, so.” He nods. “Probably better if we don’t.”

“Agreed,” David says, nodding back. His head feels loose and wobbly, like he’s some kind of children’s toy. “Um, I probably shouldn’t stay over tonight,” he says. “But—tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow sounds good,” Patrick says. “Tomorrow sounds— _really_ good.” He bites his lip, looking up at David. “David, I hope you know—”

“I—sorry, hold that thought,” David says, digging his phone out of his pocket. “What the _fuck?_ ” It’s not a call, just a flurry of text messages from Stevie, one after the other. David taps on the most recent notification and reads it aloud: “‘ _if you don’t get back here in the next three minutes i’m giving all of your clothes to jocelyn to use as costumes for her freshman theater class._ ’ Um.”

“That’s…” Patrick raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very specific threat.”

“Unfortunately, it’s also a highly credible one.” David sighs. “Okay, fine, let’s go.”

Despite her desperate texting—seven messages in a minute and a half, each with a more alarming threat against David’s wardrobe—Stevie seems perfectly fine when they get back to the table, tucked against Rachel’s side and smiling. To Rachel’s left, Jamie is carrying on an animated conversation via video chat, her weight braced against Rachel with an easy, unconscious trust.

“And then on Tuesday—oh!” Jamie pops up, spinning around to face him and Patrick. “Here’s Dad and David!” She leaps off of the bench and runs around to meet them, the phone swinging in her grip. David feels a rush of pity for whoever’s on the other end of the chat. Hopefully they have a strong stomach.

“David, this is my Grandma June! Grandma, this is David Rose, he runs the store with Dad.”

“Hi, June.” Patrick takes the phone from Jamie’s flailing hands. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know me, Patrick.” Grandma June has a narrow face, piercing eyes, and a tumble of graying curls. “Same old nonsense.” Her gaze lands on David. “And this is David Rose, I see.” Her voice is soft, her diction precise: the sound of old money.

“I, yes.” David says. “That’s me. And how is, uh—” David wracks his brain, trying to think what it is she does. Something in art, he knows, and it’s right on the tip of his tongue, it’s, it’s— “The museum,” he says, with possibly a bit too much relief. “How are things at the museum?”

“Very well, thank you.” David can tell from the curl of her mouth that she’s choosing to be generous with him. “We’ve just secured a traveling exhibition of Morisot’s work, which is obviously quite a coup.”

“Berthe Morisot?”

June raises an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening. “Are you familiar with her work?”

“I, a little,” David says. “One of the Impressionists, right?” He wracks his brain, trying to dredge up memories of his art history coursework. “The one who left the edges unfinished?”

“The very one.” June gives him a long look, then nods. “I’ll have to make sure to send you a pair of tickets. It would be nice for Jamie to have someone knowledgeable with her.”

“That would be—wonderful,” David manages. “Thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble,” she says, waving his words off. “And the store is going well? Jamie’s told me a great deal, of course.”

“ _Very_ well,” Patrick says, tilting the phone enough that David is freed from that laser-focused gaze. “We’ll have to send you a gift basket soon, June. We’ve got a lot of great products from local vendors.”

“I’d like that,” June says. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer—I hear you have some baseball to play.”

“That’s what I hear, yeah,” Patrick says, laughing. “Do you want me to give the phone back to Rachel?”

“No, that’s fine,” June says. “Lovely to see you, Patrick, and to meet you, David.”

The call ends, and Patrick hands the phone back to Jamie. “Give that to your mom, kiddo?”

“Okay!” Jamie takes the phone and goes back to her spot next to Rachel. David sinks into a chair across from them.

“So that was, uh—” He looks at Rachel, taking a drink of his lemonade and wishing violently for a shot of vodka to go with it. “Your mom is really…”

“Intense?” Patrick suggests.

“Let’s go with that, yeah,” David says.

“She knows a _lot_ of stuff about art,” Jamie adds. “Like, a _lot_.” She wrinkles her nose. “Some of it’s cool, but some of it’s really boring.”

“More importantly,” Clint says, over the sound of Rachel’s laughter, “never, _ever_ play poker with her.” He grimaces. “She’s an absolute _shark_.”

Patrick makes an incredulous face. “When did you and June play poker?”

“Listen, kid,” Clint says, shaking his head, “some of those baseball games were really long.”

“Speaking of baseball—” Marcy gets to her feet, holding the brand new glove out to Jamie. “Want to play a little catch, kiddo?” She glances over at Patrick, her eyes gleaming. “Your dad can come with us, if he thinks he can keep up.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Patrick stands up, his hand resting gently on David’s shoulder. “Jamie, can you grab my glove and your old one from the garage?” He gives his mother a narrow-eyed stare. “Your grandma is talking some big talk for someone whose team hasn’t won a game in three years.”

“Two and a half,” Marcy says, as Jamie runs off. “And how long has it been for your team? Oh, that’s right,” she says, as if to nobody in particular. “Patrick isn’t _on_ a team right now.”

“I’m not on a—” Patrick throws up his hands. “Mom, did you miss the part where I _moved_?”

“Six months ago, yeah,” Marcy says. “That excuse won’t hold forever, honey.” The two of them face off across the table, scowling at each other. David can’t help but think of a pair of sparrows, puffing their feathers out to seem bigger: neither of the Brewers are particularly intimidating, but they hold themselves like much larger people.

Next to Marcy, Clint meets David’s eyes and shakes his head sadly. “ _I_ wanted to put him in dance classes,” he says. “But Marcy insisted on baseball.” 

If Patrick and Marcy hear him, they don’t give any sign, staring each other down and trading insults that quickly shade into the particular brand of sports-based incomprehensible that David has always found particularly unattractive. He’s honestly kind of relieved when Jamie comes back with an array of baseball paraphernalia and they all decamp to the other end of the lawn.

“Best of three?” Rachel says to Clint, who nods.

“Sorry, what?” They ignore him too, falling into a series of vehement hand gestures that David eventually recognizes as a vicious game of rock-paper-scissors. Rachel loses and stands up, pressing a kiss to Stevie’s cheek. 

“I’m going to go referee,” she says. “Try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum.”

“Better you than me,” Clint says. “You’re not married to him anymore, after all.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “For _so_ many reasons,” she says, but troops gamely over to whatever baseball-adjacent thing is being organized. It can’t be actual baseball; David’s 90% sure that there are more people involved in actual baseball.

“You two are really getting the whole nine yards today, aren’t you,” Clint says, looking between David and Stevie with a little smile. “First us, then June—”

“Yeah, David,” Stevie says, leaning forward to punch him on the shoulder. “Thanks _so much_ for leaving me alone out here for that call.”

“Um, we were doing dishes.” Before Stevie can make whatever innuendo-laden comment he can see brewing in her brain, he turns to Clint. “So you and Marcy must know June pretty well, I guess?”

Clint nods. “They met in grade one,” he says. “Patrick and Rachel, I mean. Sat next to each other for four years, until Emily Breen moved to town. Alphabetical order,” he adds, when David and Stevie share a blank look. “Rachel’s maiden name was Brauer, spelled B-R-A-U-E-R. Pronounced the same, though.”

“Wait, _seriously?_ ” Stevie’s jaw drops. “And she married Patrick _Brewer_?” 

“Wow,” David says, blinking. “That’s—what were they _thinking?_ ”

Clint shakes his head. “You tell me,” he says. “But yeah, we’ve known Rachel forever.” He looks back at Stevie. “She was basically a daughter to us even before they got married.” His voice is mild, but David sees the way Stevie’s knuckles go white on her phone. “And even now that they’ve split up, really.”

“Well, that’s, uh.” Stevie takes a sip of lemonade. “It’s good that she has you two.”

“We care a lot about her,” Clint says, still in that same calm, even tone. “We want to see her happy, whatever that looks like.”

“I, yeah.” Stevie swallows visibly. “I want that, too.”

The silence stretches out, spiny and agonizing—and then Clint nods, grinning.

“Well, that’s all anybody can ask for, really,” he says. “Now, David!” He turns in his seat, eyes bright. David’s blood runs cold with dread, but Clint just leans forward and says, “Tell me more about this cheese supplier of yours.”

“Oh,” David says, doing his best to hide his sigh of relief. “Well, her name is Heather Warner, and she’s got a goat farm about twenty minutes east of here…”

It’s idyllic, honestly: sitting in the sunshine with his best friend, talking about the work he loves. Clint Brewer is an engaged listener, asking questions about the details of the store and paying close attention to the answers. He even looks at David’s preliminary branding sketches, pulling a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and leaning close to David’s phone to see, swiping back and forth to compare images.

While he’s deliberating, David glances over at the baseball. He’s still not clear what the actual rules are, or who’s winning, or if this is even the kind of game you win—although given the tenor of Patrick’s conversations with his mother, it seems like cooperative play is pretty firmly off the table. 

It’s odd, this competitive side of Patrick. He teases plenty, of course, but David’s never seen him with this kind of intensity, this single-minded focus on _winning_. As a general rule, David’s not a big fan of athletic competition, but on Patrick it’s strangely compelling. 

Just then, Patrick looks back, meeting David’s gaze without hesitation, like he knows what David’s thinking about—worse, like he knows all of the things David is very carefully _not_ thinking about. Even at this distance, it’s enough to send a shiver of heat and anticipation down David’s spine, electricity coiling restlessly through his body as he thinks about all of the things they could do with that kind of energy.

God, what if Patrick fucked him like this? What would it be like, David wonders, all of that easy, confident physicality channeled into bending David in half and making him see stars? Or—David imagines riding Patrick, pinning him down and using his body to get off, Patrick stretched out on the bed with his hands on David’s hips, urging him on. God, or David could get a toy in him, something with a vibrator maybe, spread Patrick out and tease him until he’s shivering and aching—

“Well, they’re all great, but I think I like the first one best,” Clint says, and David startles so hard that he nearly knocks over his lemonade.

“I, sorry, what?”

“The drawings.” Clint hands David’s phone back. “They’re all really good, but I think the first one is my favorite.”

Before David puts his phone away, a message pops up:

**if you get a boner at this table i will laugh until i puke on your shoes**

David very carefully doesn’t look at Stevie or do anything else to acknowledge her message. Texting someone at the same table is exactly the kind of rude behavior that doesn’t need any encouragement.

“Well, thanks,” he says to Clint, instead. “I still need to talk with the labeling company, but I think that’s my favorite, too.”

They move on from cheese to food more generally. It’s an easy conversation, one idea springboarding into the next, full of laughter and comfortable teasing. Clint talks about his experiments in home beer brewing, and Stevie tells a frankly hilarious story about picking berries near the creek as a kid. For his part, David tells the story about Patrick and the body milk—unfair, maybe, when he’s not here to defend himself, but Clint laughs long and loud, slapping his hand on his thigh. 

“Oh, God,” he says, shaking his head. “I feel for him, though, actually. Right after we were married, Marcy’s sister sent us this—”

“Clinton, dear,” Marcy says, her voice dangerously sweet. She drops onto the bench and throws her arm around her husband’s shoulders. “Didn’t we have a discussion about this story?” She raises her eyebrows. “Specifically, about what stories _I_ would tell, if you decided to tell this story?”

“...you know, I suddenly can’t remember what I was going to say,” Clint says. “How about that?” Marcy pecks him on the cheek and smiles. “So how was your game?” He looks past Marcy to Patrick and Jamie. “Did somebody win?”

“I did!” Jamie chirps, settling onto the bench and grabbing a fistful of chips. “Dad and Grandma kept getting distracted by arguing and I stole a _lot_ of bases.” She looks at David, shaking her head sadly. “It’s important to stay focused on the game if you want to win,” she informs him.

“That’s what I hear, yes,” David says. “Well, good for you.” He nudges the stack of napkins towards her, eyeing the sheen of grease on her hands and her proximity to his Neil Barrett pants; fortunately, she takes the hint and wipes her fingers clean. “Anything else planned for today?” Jamie shakes her head, dragging the napkin over her mouth.

“Actually,” Marcy says, “Grandpa and I have one more present for you, if you want.” Jamie looks up at her, eyes wide, and Marcy laughs. “We thought that maybe you’d like to have a sleepover at our hotel tonight, as a birthday treat.”

Jamie whirls around to face Patrick and Rachel. “Can I? Please?”

“Fine by me,” Rachel says, shrugging. “Patrick?"

“Sounds like fun,” Patrick agrees. “If Grandma and Grandpa are sure?” He glances to Marcy, eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” Marcy says. “We wouldn’t have offered, otherwise.” She turns back to Jamie, now practically vibrating with excitement. “You’ll have to bring your swimsuit, though,” she says. “There’s a pool.” Like a shot, Jamie is off the bench and pelting back towards the house. 

“And pajamas!” Patrick calls after her, laughing. “And your toothbrush! Seriously,” he adds, turning back to his parents, “thank you, this is great. She always loves to spend time with you two.”

“We love spending time with her,” Clint says. 

“Plus, the hotel gave us a room with two double beds,” Marcy adds, shrugging. “So it’s no problem.” She raises an eyebrow at Patrick, smiling with a studied sort of innocence. “We figured you’d appreciate the night off.”

“I—yes, thank you,” Patrick says. David looks down at his phone and checks Twitter aggressively, not willing to run the risk of making eye contact with anybody at the table. “That’s very nice of you.” 

“Well, we’re also going to let her stay up past her bedtime and eat too much sugar,” Clint says. “We’re still her grandparents.”

“Glad to hear it,” Patrick says. “Thanks in advance.” He sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “I should probably go make sure she packs some actual clothes, too.”

“I’ll help,” Rachel says. “Stevie, you still good to come over afterwards?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Stevie pokes David in the shoulder. “I’m going over to Rachel’s, so you’re going to have to walk home, sorry.”

“Um, _excuse_ me?” David’s head snaps up and he stares at Stevie. “That was _not_ a part of our negotiations.”

Stevie shrugs, unrepentant. “I forgot.” She raises her eyebrows. “Maybe Patrick can give you a ride home.”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick says. His voice is even and unconcerned, but there’s a flush rising on the back of his neck. “Just got to go get Jamie packed, and then I’ll drop you.”

“Sounds good,” David says. “And I’ll just, uh.” He looks around the table. “Take the leftovers in, I guess.”

They all make their way inside, laden with dishes and the remains of the cake. The kitchen is a whirl of activity, laughter and conversation and people everywhere—and then abruptly David is alone with Stevie, all of the Brewers dispersed to other parts of the house.

“So, you’re _welcome_ ,” Stevie says. She hands David a roll of tinfoil.

“Um, am I thanking you for something?”

“For getting you laid, yeah.” Stevie waggles her eyebrows in the way that she persists in thinking is sexy despite all of the evidence to the contrary. “Like I said, you’re _welcome_.”

David rolls his eyes. “Except you didn’t know that Jamie’s grandparents were going to suggest a sleepover,” he reminds her. “So when you planned this, you were really just planning to give me an evening of sexual frustration.”

“Well, yeah, but,” Stevie shrugs. “This works too.” She takes the freshly-wrapped plate of cake from him and sets it on the table, then turns back to him, her eyebrows raised.

“Ugh, fine, _thank you_ ,” David says.

“For what?” Patrick comes back into the room and leans against the counter. “Did Stevie do something nice?”

“Yes, she—” David can’t look directly at Patrick, which is why he sees Jamie enter the living room. “—offered to drive me to Elmdale next week to pick up the embroidered table runners.”

“She did?” Patrick blinks and turns to Stevie, who looks equally startled. “Stevie, that’s very—”

“If you go to Elmdale, you should stop at the ice cream place,” Jamie says, coming into the kitchen. “You know, the one on Main and Carter? It’s really good.” She looks up at Patrick. “I’m ready to go, Dad."

“Got everything?” Jamie nods and Patrick turns to his parents, behind her in the doorway. “Text me when you’re ready to give her back in the morning,” he says. “I know you two wanted to make an early start of it tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Marcy says, nodding. “Come on, kiddo, let’s hit the road!”

There’s a flurry of hugs and good-byes as the Brewers leave. Patrick shuts the front door behind them, the sound echoing in a suddenly empty house.

“...Hi,” David says, when Patrick doesn’t turn around to face him. “Um, I can go back to the motel, if you don’t—” 

Patrick whirls around and is on David before he gets the chance to finish his sentence, shoving him back against the wall and kissing him hot and desperate.

“God, David, you’re so—” Patrick breathes out a sigh against David’s collarbone, scraping his teeth roughly over thin skin, sending a shiver down David’s spine. “Fuck, I can’t believe you.” He sucks in another breath, cool air gusting over David’s pulse, then presses a slow, lewd kiss to David’s neck, all wet tongue and suction.

“I’m, oh—” David shakes his head, trying to clear it without dislodging Patrick. “What am I, now?”

“Fuck, you’re just—” Patrick pulls back, smiling up at David, his eyes full of some unreadable emotion. “You’re absolutely incredible, David Rose,” he says.

“Mmm, I like the sound of that,” David says. “Tell me—” The rest of the sentence gets lost as Patrick reaches up, tangles his fingers in David’s hair, and drags their mouths together in a hot, demanding kiss. Patrick kisses like he’s starving for it, messy and insistent, like this afternoon was as agonizing for him as it was for David.

“...fuck,” David says, when they break apart again. “Fuck, Patrick, I— _fuck_.” Patrick licks his lips and then drops down into a squat, his hands braced on David’s thighs. 

“I want to suck you, David,” he says, staring up at David with flushed cheeks and a serious expression. “God, please, I want to suck your dick.”

David is too stunned to give an answer, but Patrick doesn’t really seem to need one. He rocks onto his knees with an easy, deliberate grace, sliding one hand up to pop the button of David’s jeans and ease the zipper down, his other hand rubbing restlessly at David’s thigh.

“I’m, oh,” David manages eventually. “I’m not going to last long.” Even the visual is so much already: Patrick on his knees for David, his pretty clean mouth and his big dark eyes.

“That’s okay,” Patrick says. “You don’t need to.” He presses a hand to the front of his sensible, practical jeans, over the bulge that’s practically pornographic. “I’m not going to, either.”

“You should—” David breaks off, biting his lips, as Patrick tugs his jeans and boxers down to his ankles and wraps that mouth around David’s dick, sucking David down and groaning in the back of his throat like he wants it, like he needs it. David could lose himself in it, wants to lose himself in it. Even more than that, though, he wants— “You should touch yourself,” he says, curling his hands gently around the back of Patrick’s head. “Touch your dick, Patrick.”

Patrick makes a noise around David’s dick, a muffled, choked-off moan that sets David’s blood on fire.

“David, fuck.” He pulls off and licks his lips, his mouth red and wet.

“Do it.” David rubs a thumb in front of Patrick’s ear. “Come on,” he says, “let me see it, touch yourself for me.” 

Patrick leans in and bites roughly at David’s hip, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, raw and tender—but he also unbuttons his jeans and shoves them down, wrapping his hand around his dick with a quiet hiss.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” David pets gently at Patrick’s hair, feeling the hint of sweat springing up at his temples, along the back of his neck. “Just like that, that’s right,” he says, letting his voice drop low and coaxing. “Make yourself feel good, come on, you can do it.”

“David,” Patrick says, his voice agonized, his eyes fluttering closed. He looks like a painting, like this, one of those medieval paintings of saints that smudge the line between martyrdom and eroticicism. It’s—god, it’s a good look for him. His eyelashes are _absurd_.

“Yeah, just like that,” David says, stripped down to inanities as Patrick presses a kiss to the side of his dick, open-mouthed and lavish. “You’re good, you’re so good, you’re so, oh, _oh_ —” as Patrick sucks him back down, sucking him slick and greedy. He’s got one hand tight on David’s thigh, the other hand working frantically at his cock. David can’t really see much, from this angle, but he can see enough: the sharp, urgent motion of Patrick’s arm; the desperate twitch of his hips; the open circle of his mouth around David’s dick, wet and red and obscene.

Patrick’s mouth is a revelation, an inferno of wet heat and the slick stealthy glide of Patrick’s tongue. David is close, he’s so close, and then Patrick breaks away, gasping against David’s thigh, his posture going tighter until he’s coming with a stifled moan, hot and wet against David’s shin. There’s frustration, an agonized tension in David’s balls, but it’s worth it to have this: Patrick Brewer, his face pressed to David’s thigh, making garbled vowel sounds as he comes down from what sounds like a truly phenomenal orgasm.

“David, god,” Patrick says eventually. “Fuck, sorry, I’m just—” He breaks off, laughing ruefully, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says again. “I meant to—I was going to—”

“I mean.” David tilts his hips, bumping his dick gently against Patrick’s chin. “I think I know how you can make it up to me, if you want.”

“Mmmm.” Patrick turns his head enough to press a slow, sucking kiss against the side of David’s dick, then pulls away, eyebrows raised. “True, but we could also go upstairs.”

“We could,” David says, shifting his hips again. “But, you know, _stairs_ , and my dick is right here, so—”

“—We could go upstairs, and you could fuck me,” Patrick says. “Is what I was trying to say.” Which is— _God_ , that’s a nice thought. David has to squeeze his eyes closed and count backwards from one hundred, it’s so nice, but—

“I won’t last,” he says, biting his lip. “I want to, I promise, just—” he sucks in a breath, reaching for a calm he can’t quite grasp. “I want to take my time with you, and if we go upstairs right now, I—won’t be able to do that.” David winces a little, preemptively, but Patrick just rests his hands on David’s thighs, his thumbs soothing over the jut of David’s iliac crest.

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, even though, objectively, nothing about what David just said was okay. “We have time, David.” He smiles up from the floor, gentle and affectionate, then waggles his eyebrows. “We have the whole night.”

“Mmm, you _really_ don’t have enough eyebrow to pull that off,” David tells him. “Leave it to the professionals.”

“Okay, noted,” Patrick says with a serious nod. “Can I suck your dick, though? Is that allowed?”

“I—yes,” David says graciously. “Yes, you can do that.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick’s face creases in faux-concern. “I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

“Oh my _God_.” David lets his head drop back against the wall with a hollow thunk. “Why do I even li—” He breaks off, his completely justified complaint dissolving into gibberish as Patrick sucks him back down, mouth hot and tight and relentless. “Oh my God,” David says again, his hands flexing restlessly in Patrick’s hair. “Patrick, oh, oh fuck.” 

As predicted, David doesn’t last long. Patrick works him mercilessly, cupping one hand gently around David’s balls, scraping the nails of his free hand down David’s thigh, tilting his head to press against David’s hands. He takes David deep with a contented little hum that echoes through David’s body until it feels like every part of him is vibrating, trembling in anticipation and desire. It’s so much, so good, tension spiraling higher and tighter. Patrick works David’s body like a beautiful instrument, like an elaborate machine, something he’s spent years learning and studying until he’s perfected his art.

“Patrick,” David says again, his tugging at Patrick’s hair suddenly much more purposeful. “Fuck, oh, I’m—”

Patrick draws back slowly, his tongue dragging gently along David’s dick, and stops with his lips just brushing the head.

“Give it to me, David.” He’s flushed, a little sweaty, his hair a mess where David’s been hanging on to it for dear life. “I want it, come on, give it to me.” The words drag his lips back and forth over the head of David’s dick, a slippery, teasing pressure that tips David over the edge into orgasm. It splashes over Patrick’s mouth, a filthy glaze on his lips, his chin, and then Patrick opens his mouth wide and takes David back down, sucking hungrily. David pours himself into that hot, sweet mouth until he feels like he’s been turned inside out, taken apart down to his component pieces and put back together, his body humming and fizzing with shivery, bell-struck pleasure.

“God, David—” And Patrick is on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on David’s waist and leaning in for a kiss. It’s slow and deliberate, lush gentle tongue and Patrick’s hand on the side of David’s face. It’s somehow achingly sweet even as David tastes his own come on Patrick’s lips. “Hi,” Patrick says, when they finally pull apart.

“Hi,” David says. “That was—” he shakes his head, at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” Patrick says. His voice is quiet, but it echoes through the empty house, through David’s pounding heart. “Yeah, it really was.”

***

They get cleaned up and changed: Patrick into a loose pair of shorts and a t-shirt, David into a pair of pajama pants from Patrick’s bedroom.

“Top drawer, left-hand side,” Patrick tells him, sending him upstairs with a fresh towel and a kiss. “I think the gray striped ones should fit you.” They’re a little short, actually, but some stupid part of David seizes on that thought, curling up around it like a raccoon around a stale donut from the garbage. Patrick has thought about David wearing his pajamas, maybe made a point of having this pair handy in case David stayed over. It’s nothing, really, but something about the idea burns, a live coal tucked in the pit of David’s stomach.

It’s early, still, but when David comes back downstairs Patrick is waiting with two glasses of whiskey and a shy smile.

“I thought we could maybe watch something,” he says. “If you want?”

It turns out that Patrick has never seen _The Lake House_ , which makes the decision an easy one. They settle onto the couch, Patrick tucked into the corner with David stretched out next to him, one cheek pressed to Patrick’s chest.

“You comfy?” Patrick says, and David nods, rubbing his face against the washed-soft fabric of Patrick’s t-shirt. His arm is tucked up at a weird angle between Patrick’s shoulder and the back of the couch, and his ankles are cold where the pajamas aren’t quite long enough, but Patrick is a warm, solid presence underneath him, his hand tracing idle circles along David’s shoulders. 

It’s—it’s _nice_ , is what it is, warm and soft and secure, and _The Lake House_ , while an excellent film, isn’t one of David’s top five Sandra Bullock movies, and it’s been a long day, and David maybe, sort of, kind of...falls asleep. 

A little bit. 

For most of the movie.

He wakes up to the gentle brush of knuckles along his cheek, the featherlight press of lips against his forehead.

“Grph.” David blinks his eyes open and works his jaw gently. “The fuck?”

“You fell asleep,” Patrick says, leaning in to press another kiss to his hairline. “Just before he sent her the first letter.”

“...fuck,” David says, blinking some more. “That’s right at the beginning.” He looks up at Patrick, grimacing. “Sorry, you didn’t have to—you could have woken me up.”

Patrick gives an abbreviated shrug, boxed in by the arm of the couch. “You were resting,” he says, rubbing gently at the back of David’s neck. “Plus, it’s not a bad movie.”

“Um, excuse _me_.” David pulls back to glare at Patrick the best he can without dislodging Patrick’s hands. “It’s an _amazing_ movie.” 

Patrick nods. “So amazing that you fell asleep twenty minutes in, right.”

“I—” David sighs, giving up. “Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s fine, I swear,” Patrick says. “I enjoyed it.”

David raises an eyebrow. “You enjoyed it.”

“Well.” Patrick grins, embarrassed and conspiratorial. “Keanu Reeves is really hot.”

“...he is,” David agrees. “Fuck, what time is it?”

“A little before seven,” Patrick says. “You hungry?”

“No,” David says, even though he could probably eat. “I should actually—I mean, uh.” He swallows, looking down at Patrick’s chest. There’s a logo of some sort printed on the breast, faded and flaking from wear. Some sort of bird? A flower? “I can go, if you want.”

“You can.” Patrick’s fingers continue their slow, meandering exploration of David’s upper back. “Or, alternatively, you could come upstairs with me.”

“I—could do that,” David says slowly.

They make their way upstairs in a slow, dreamlike stumble. David’s still half asleep, dazed and fuzzy, and keeps getting distracted. He pauses them on the stairs to bite the curve of Patrick’s neck where it disappears under the collar of his shirt, spends long minutes kissing the delicate bones of Patrick’s wrists just inside the bedroom door, pins Patrick down on the bed to suck marks onto the pale strip of skin at his waist, just above the curve of his ass.

“David, fuck,” Patrick gasps, his fingers clenched tight in the sheets. “You need to, I need you to—” He reaches backwards to shove at David’s shoulders and David obliges, backing up until Patrick has the space to roll over. He’s obscene like this, mouth wet, pajamas tented over the blunt press of his cock. “David,” he says, like a sentence in and of itself, like a curse, like a prayer.

“I want to fuck you,” David says, his mouth operating without any intervention from his brain. “I want, I want to—”

“God, yes,” Patrick says, shoving his pajamas down and kicking them away. “David, _yes_.” He licks his hand sloppily and wraps it around his dick, jacking himself slowly as he stares up at David. “Fuck me, David.”

“...lube,” David says, once he has the breath and the brainpower to speak. “We need, you had—” He dives for the nightstand, yanking the drawer open and scrabbling inside it until he finds a bottle. 

Not the bottle he’s expecting, though.

“This is—” _Intimacy_ , the label informs him helpfully. “This is _ours_ ,” he says, brandishing the unopened bottle at Patrick. “We sell this, at the store.”

“Well, you said it was better than the other stuff.” Patrick looks up through his lashes in a way that should honestly be illegal. “Plus, I ran out.”

“You—” David thinks about that, thinks about Patrick using up that other bottle of lube by himself. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, we’re definitely going to circle back to _that_ ,” he says. “But for right now—” He flips the cap, dribbles some lube on his hand, and shoulders his way between Patrick’s thighs. “Right now we’re just going to do—this,” he says, sinking a finger slowly into Patrick’s ass.

Patrick is tight around David’s fingers, tight and hot and trembling slightly; David brushes a kiss to his thigh, half apology, half promise. He slides his finger in to the first knuckle and pauses, letting Patrick adjust, delicate muscles clenching and releasing.

“David, oh,” Patrick says, his voice catching, hazy and pleasure-drunk. “I want, I need—”

“Yeah,” David tells him, “you have it, take it, go on.” Patrick cants his hips up, tilting them into David’s hand with a shocked gasp, shivering in beautiful unselfconscious pleasure.

“More,” he says. “David, _oh_ —” David gives him more, more, one finger turning into two, into three, until he’s fucking Patrick with short, sharp strokes. “Oh, _oh_ ,” Patrick says, the words punched out of him. “I see why you—why you like this stuff.” He arches his back, the movement rolling down his spine and pushing his hips against David’s hand. “It’s nice.”

“Mmm, it is,” David agrees, sinking lower on the bed. “Also, it’s edible,” he adds, and leans in to lick around his fingers, filthy and deliberate.

Patrick makes a noise—loud, unlovely, _perfect_ —and shivers, clearly caught between the desire to press into the sensation and the urge to draw away. David wraps a hand around Patrick’s thigh to hold him in place, licks in again, spit and sweat and the feel of Patrick falling apart around him, against him. He spreads his fingers wider, darts his tongue in, pressing against Patrick’s rim and sucking hard. The sound Patrick makes in response fills David’s entire body, resonating like a gong.

“Fuck me,” Patrick says—has _been_ saying, David realizes. “Fuck me, oh, God, fuck me, please.” Patrick wraps a leg around David’s shoulders, the calluses of his heel scraping over David’s skin. He rolls his hips, pushing down onto David’s fingers. “I need it, I need it, David, please, _please_ —”

“Shh, I know.” David kneels up, brushing an apologetic kiss over the smooth skin of Patrick’s thigh. “Just, here, let me—”

The first press into Patrick’s body is incredible, heat and pressure and the low, shocked noise that Patrick makes, his hands clenched on David’s shoulders.

“Oh, I, David, _oh_ ,” he says, his eyes clenched shut. 

“You okay?” David pauses, running his hands over Patrick’s sides, soothing and teasing and distracting, easing them both through the moment.

Patrick’s eyes flutter open, slow and dazed, and he grins up at David.

“Yeah,” he says, biting his lip. “I’m—I’m pretty good, David.”

“ _Pretty_ good, well,” David huffs, sliding his hands under Patrick’s ass and adjusting the angle. “I think we can do better than _that_.”

Everything goes hot and hazy from there: the sweet clutching pressure of Patrick around him, the desperate ache of Patrick’s hands on his shoulders, the frantic, urgent way Patrick says his name, over and over again. David fucks him until they’re both sweaty and desperate, then gets an elbow under Patrick’s knee, yanks his hips up, and fucks him some more.

“David, fuck,” Patrick gasps, his hands slipping down David’s arms. “You’re so, you’re so—” He breaks off, eyes shut, face twisted up in a pleasure that looks almost like pain, and comes in hot, sharp spurts against David’s stomach, his hips jerking.

“Yeah, well,” David says, leaning in to whisper it against Patrick’s sweaty cheek. “You’re pretty _so_ yourself.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Patrick says, startled out of the remnants of his orgasm and into real amusement. It’s that tone, laughing and disbelieving and rueful all at once, that sends David over the edge, thrusting frantically into Patrick’s body until he collapses, spent.

“I should move,” David says eventually, speaking more to Patrick’s left nipple than anything else. Their breathing has slowed, falling into sync, Patrick’s chest rising and falling gently underneath him. “I’m gonna, hm. Gonna do that.”

“Sounds good,” Patrick says. “Keep me posted.” His voice is foggy and vague, and something about it digs at a corner of David’s brain like a gnat, like a grain of sand, like a pea under a half-dozen mattresses.

“Are you, did you—” David musters the dregs of his energy and pulls himself up enough to look Patrick in the eye. “Are you good? Was that good for you?” It comes out cracked and vulnerable, a reedy, anxious tone creeping into his voice. He hates it, but he can’t stop it, because, God, if Patrick didn’t like it, if it wasn’t good for him—

“Shh, yes, _yes,_ David,” Patrick says, drawing his hands down David’s sides in slow, even strokes, firm and anchoring. “It was good, it was—god, fuck,” he says, his face creasing with laughter, “it was so good I still can’t feel my toes.”

“Well, I mean.” David shrugs, nestling back down against Patrick’s side. “Who needs to feel their toes, really?”

“Exactly.” Patrick runs his hand up David’s spine, scratching gently at the back of his neck in a way that sends delicious shivers down David’s spine. “You’re good, David,” he says. “We’re good.”

David’s heard that phrase from more people than he can count. It’s always felt more aspirational than anything else, the sort of thing that people say because they want it to be true. It’s a New Year’s Resolution of a statement, the thing you say when you want to keep pretending it’s not over yet.

From Patrick, though, it doesn’t sound like wishful thinking. It sounds like a statement of fact.

They’re good. David takes a deep breath and falls asleep before he can let it back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact #1: this chapter got the entire fucking story put in time out for a whole week.
> 
> fun fact #2: the burger recipe that patrick uses is based on my wife's burger recipe. it's different every time and it's always amazing.


	10. Chapter 10

David wakes up to the feeling of Patrick sucking slow, lingering kisses down his spine, which is a _very_ nice way to greet the day. 

“Mm, oh.” He stretches languidly. “ _Hello._ ”

“Hi,” Patrick says, his voice vibrating pleasantly against the small of David’s back. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“That depends,” David replies, spreading his legs to give Patrick more room to work. “If I say that you did, what are you going to do to make it up to me?”

“Not sure, really,” Patrick says. His hands are warm and slightly sweaty on the back of David’s thighs. His thumbs trace a slow, meditative path just under David’s ass. “I have a few ideas, though.”

 _‘A few ideas’_ turns out to be code for the most excruciatingly drawn-out rimjob David’s ever had, Patrick’s sweet tidy mouth turned delightfully sloppy as he takes David apart. He’s thorough and methodical, planting kiss after slow, sucking kiss right on David’s hole, his breath hot and damp over delicate, tender skin.

“Oh, fuck.” David’s still half-asleep, maybe more than that, and the pleasure rolls over him in endless devastating waves. It feels like Patrick is kissing every part of him, fucking David’s entire self with his tongue. “This was, oh,” he gasps, “a good idea.”

Patrick pulls away with a low, pleased noise. “I’m glad you approve,” he says. “Here, move your leg a bit?” David obliges, tipping onto his side just enough to pull his knee up towards his chest, opening himself up for Patrick. “Fuck, _David,_ ” Patrick says, and then his mouth is back, and his _fingers_ , licking and sucking and fucking David until he’s sobbing for breath, aching with how overwhelmingly good he feels.

“Fuck.” David shoves back against Patrick’s hands, his mouth. “Oh my god, oh, _oh_ —” He comes like that, Patrick’s fingers crooked just right against his prostate, Patrick’s tongue sliding slickly over his hole. “Oh my _God_ ,” David says, “I, you—fuck, hang on, let me just—” He tries to roll over, but only manages to flop around limply in the wet mess he’s made of Patrick’s bed; none of his limbs seem to be working normally. “Give me a second, and I’ll—”

“That’s, uh—” Patrick takes a deep breath, shaky enough to be audible over the pounding of David’s pulse. “That’s not, you don’t need to—” He sits up, no longer pressed against David’s back, and the air of the room is a sudden shock to David’s overheated skin. There’s the slick wet sound of skin on skin, accelerating slowly, and the counterpoint of Patrick’s unsteady breathing, little gasps and long, shuddering exhales. David’s still hazy with orgasm, his skin tingling, and he can’t put two and two together until suddenly he can.

“Oh,” he says, “oh, _yeah_ , do it.” He reaches his hands over his head and stretches, easing the ache out of his lower back and—completely coincidentally—pressing his ass up for Patrick to admire.

 _“David._ ” Patrick sounds practically drunk with pleasure. David can hear his hand and his breathing speeding up, fast and then faster, until suddenly everything stops. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Patrick says, low and shocked, and then there’s a splash of heat along David’s ass, pooling in the small of his back: Patrick’s come.

“Fuck,” Patrick says again, in the tones of a person concluding an argument, and collapses gently onto David’s back. He’s a little heavy, and his chin digs into David’s trapezius muscle, and the damp stickiness between their bodies is going to stop being hot in approximately thirteen seconds—

—and it’s still a _very_ nice way to wake up.

“I’m definitely going to need a shower,” David says, instead of anything more revealing. 

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, me too,” he says, rolling to the side. “Also, good morning.”

“Good morning.” David twists his neck to accept the kiss Patrick is offering. “...better once I get a shower, though,” he adds, pulling back and raising an eyebrow. “Oh, and coffee.”

“Yes, David,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes and standing up. “I’d be happy to let you have the first shower; you’re a guest.”

“That’s very generous of you,” David tells him. Positive reinforcement is important, after all. “And you’ll start the coffee?”

Patrick shakes his head, his mouth twisting in a way that makes David’s stomach turn over. “You’re lucky I like you so much,” Patrick says, which is—

“Enough to make breakfast?” David raises his eyebrows hopefully. Patrick just laughs, grabbing his t-shirt from the floor and pulling it on. 

“Towels are in the linen closet, you remember where.” Then he’s gone, out the bedroom door and into the hallway, the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of his footsteps receding down the staircase.

David considers staying in bed. It’s very comfortable, despite only being a queen, and Patrick is nice enough that he’d probably bring David coffee. On the other hand, Patrick would almost definitely draw the line at serving David breakfast in bed, and also there’s come drying on David’s ass in a way that’s threatening to become extremely unpleasant in a little while. David weighs his options, but eventually bows to reality and gets up, digs through the linen closet to find an acceptable towel, and heads for the shower.

The bathroom is poorly ventilated and the shower itself is small and cramped, but the water pressure is excellent, which makes a nice change from the motel. Patrick even has a bottle of the lemon-almond body wash they get from the soapmaker out in Elm Falls, which is a very pleasant surprise. David’s been telling him to use it for months, but Patrick keeps rolling his eyes and saying that his normal soap is good enough for him even though it _obviously isn’t._

It hasn’t been opened yet, though. David hesitates for a moment, weighing the bottle in his hands as water pounds against his shoulders. Has Patrick been saving it for some kind of special occasion? Then he shrugs, runs a fingernail through the tape over the top, pops the lid. If Patrick needs to be shown how to appreciate nice things, well, David is quite possibly the most qualified person alive to be that role model.

David finishes his shower and emerges, smelling pleasantly citrusy and feeling extremely refreshed. His hair is going to be a bit of a wreck, since Patrick has apparently _not_ been feeling the urge to sample any of their haircare products, but that’s fine. Getting back into yesterday’s clothes is not David’s _favorite_ thing, but he shimmies into his jeans and shirt, tucks his underwear and socks into his pockets, and calls it good enough.

David makes his way down the stairs, following the smell of coffee and the sound of the radio to the kitchen. He can’t quite figure out what show is playing: it’s not music, but it’s not the news, either, a bright panoply of voices talking over and around each other.

“—went down the water slide _five times_ ,” he hears, and oh, oh _fuck_ , that’s—

David comes around the corner on autopilot, knowing what he’s going to see but still not quite believing it.

“Five times?” Patrick says, with that tone of patient, parental interest he always uses with Jamie. “Well, in that case, maybe we should just call off your birthday party next weekend, eh?” He glances over her head at David, his eyes apologetic. “No need to go to the water park if you got to go down the slide five whole times.”

“Dad!” Jamie flops back in her seat in horror. “Splash City has a whole _bunch_ of water slides! And a _wave pool!_ It’s not the same!”

“I can’t believe you forgot about the wave pool, Patrick. ” Clint shakes his head sadly. “We raised you better than that.”

“Plus we already invited people,” Jamie adds. “It would be rude to take it back now.”

“Well, if it would be rude.” Patrick shrugs. He glances up at David again, then over at the front door. “Guess we’ll have a birthday party.”

David looks over at the door, weighing the distance, and makes a face. He could _try_ to leave, but he doesn’t really trust himself to make it out the front door undetected. Maybe if he pretended to be just coming over—

“David!” 

Too late. David steels himself and steps fully into the kitchen, smiling weakly at Marcy.

“Hi, yeah,” he says. “I was, uh.” He looks up at Patrick, trying to get some kind of a clue how he wants to play this. “Um, after the party, Patrick and I were talking, and—”

“You had a sleepover?” Jamie looks between David and Patrick, her forehead creasing. “ _Without_ me?” Her face settles into a ferocious pout, fortunately aimed mostly at Patrick. “Dad, you _promised_ —”

“I know, babe,” he says, “but you were out with Grandma and Grandpa, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, I _do_ mind,” Jamie frowns. “It was _my idea_ to invite David over to play Scrabble. That means I should get to be there.”

“You’re very right,” Patrick says seriously. “Next time, I promise.” He looks at David, eyebrows raised, and David nods mechanically.

“Absolutely, yes,” he says. “And we, uh. We didn’t play Scrabble without you.”

“Well.” Jamie gives him a narrow, considering stare. “That’s good, I guess. What _did_ you play?”

“Uh—” David wracks his brain, trying to think of a game that won’t make Jamie jealous. “Monopoly?”

“We watched a movie,” Patrick says at the exact same time. Jamie looks between them, face full of suspicion. Next to her, Clint does a terrible job of muffling his laughter and Marcy bites her lip, her eyes sparkling.

“Right, uh,” David shakes his head. “We played Monopoly, and then we watched a movie, and then we went to bed.”

“Hmm.” Jamie makes a face. “Monopoly is stupid,” she says, which is objectively true. “What movie did you watch?”

“ _The Lake House_ ,” Patrick says. “It’s a grown-up movie, I don’t think you’d like it very much.” He raises his eyebrows at Jamie. “Are we forgiven, Your Majesty?”

“You are,” Jamie says, her voice grave. “But you still have to make pancakes.”

“Fair enough,” Patrick says. He grabs a mug down from one of the cabinets and holds it up, looking at David. “Coffee?”

“Yes, _please,_ ” David says, sinking into a chair. He’s going to need it.

***

Breakfast is...a lot. Jamie seems to have bought their story about an impromptu Monopoly sleepover (which, _ew_ , Monopoly, David would never), but Clint and Marcy are clearly not fooled. Clint keeps looking between David and Patrick, his eyebrows lifted consideringly, tilting his head this way and that like he’s trying to make sense of things. Marcy, for her part, keeps a straight face, but the things she says—

“I hope you were comfortable, dear,” she says. “Last night, I mean.”

“I—”

“That air mattress always gives me such a crick in the neck,” she adds confidingly. “But you’re young and spry, so I guess you can handle it.”

“...yes,” David says, eventually. “I, uh. Yes.”

“More coffee?” Patrick appears between them, the carafe in one hand. His other hand lands on the back of David’s shoulder, his palm warm though the fabric of David’s shirt. “David?” David holds up his cup in mute supplication, watches as Patrick fills it. “What about you, _Mom_?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, his tone shifting slightly. “Are you done?”

“Oh, for now,” she says, smiling brightly. “But I might want some more later.”

Still, the coffee is hot and strong and accompanied by pancakes and bacon, so things could be a lot worse. Jamie, satisfied that nobody has been playing Scrabble without her, spends most of the meal regaling them with her plans for her birthday party. 

“We’re going to get there early,” Jamie informs them. “Like ten thirty at the latest, even though we invited people for eleven, and we’re going to go all the way to the back to make sure we get the _good_ picnic table. It’s the one under the big tree,” she adds, catching the face David makes at the thought of any picnic table being described as _good_. “So there’s shade, but it’s also right by the bathrooms and the drinking fountain.” She chews her bacon thoughtfully. “There’s a pretty good table on the other side of the bathrooms, but it’s not as big, and it’s kind of close to the trash cans, so it’s a little smelly.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot,” Clint says.

“Oh, we have,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes slightly. “We’ve scoped the whole place out.”

“Well, event planning is serious business,” David tells Jamie. “And I, for one, applaud your commitment to detail.”

“So we’re going to get there early and claim our spot,” Jamie continues, encouraged. “And then once everybody is there—” 

The rest of the details carry them through breakfast. David focuses on his pancakes, his coffee, and asking Jamie enough questions to keep her going.

“Well, we should probably hit the road,” Marcy says eventually, standing up and stretching. “Can I get a hug, Jamester?” Jamie flings her arms around her grandmother and they squeeze each other tight, laughing. “And of course I can’t forget my favorite son,” she says, passing Jamie off to Clint and turning to Patrick.

“Mom, that joke peaked when I was seven,” he says, but lets her tug him into a hug.

“Shush,you,” she says, ruffling his hair as she lets him go. David has been edging towards the doorway, hoping to make a quiet exit, but Marcy turns and spots him. “Oh, David,” she says. “Can I get a hug, too?”

“I, uh—” David swallows, then nods. “Of course.” She pulls him close, her arms warm and strong around him, her hands patting his back gently. It’s over more quickly than David was expecting, but when he starts to pull away, Marcy holds him fast, her hands steady on his shoulders.

“I’m really glad that Patrick has you in his life, David,” she says. “And I’m just delighted to finally get to meet the partner he’s been telling us so much about.” She’s smiling up at him, all of the teasing sparkle gone, open and sincere and so much like her son that it makes David’s throat ache.

“That’s—a very sweet thing to say,” David tells her. “I’m pretty glad to have him around, too.” He tilts his head, looking over at Patrick. “Mostly.”

“Hey!” Patrick glares at David, mock-affronted. Marcy just shakes her head, laughing.

“I hope we’ll see a lot more of you, David Rose,” she says, which is—it’s just—

It’s a lot, is all.

***

David lets Patrick and Jamie go in to open the store and makes his way back to the motel for a change of clothes.

“Don’t take too long, David,” Patrick says. “You know how the morning rush is.”

“You’re hilarious.” David rolls his eyes, but he’s back at the store within the hour.

It would be great if Patrick were right and business were booming, but the morning is utterly dead. Their only customers are a woman looking for directions to Elm Glen and Roland, looking for more of Mr. Hockley’s special tea.

“I told you,” David says, “we’re not selling that any more.”

“Right, right, of course.” Roland does something deeply unsettling with his eyebrows. “But, like, you wouldn’t have to _sell_ it to me, so much as just, you know.” Roland leans in, upsettingly close. David recoils approximately 35% less than he wants to in the name of professionalism. “Give it to me, in exchange for this five dollar bill that I coincidentally happen to be holding.”

“Okay, so, first of all, that’s literally the exact definition of ‘selling’,” David says. “And also the tea was ten dollars. If we had any,” he adds, when Roland’s face lights up. “Which we _don’t_.” 

(They really don’t: David sent the whole batch back to Mr Hockley, minus the six bags Jocelyn bought and the two that David saved for product testing with Stevie.

“Yeah, no,” Stevie said, starfished bonelessly across the bed in the Love Room. “That’s _definitely_ drugs.”)

But apart from Roland the store is dead, beyond dead, which is...fine, probably. It’s gorgeous outside, after all, limitless blue sky and a warm breeze. Maybe people just don’t want to go shopping or do anything indoors when it’s this nice out.

The next day, it rains for hours, and the store stays dead. 

“I hope the weather is better tomorrow,” Jamie says fretfully. She’s sitting on the floor, the book Stevie gave her abandoned in favor of staring out the window. “Dad, what if it rains more tomorrow?”

“It’s not going to,” Patrick tells her. “I checked the forecast.”

“But what if it _does_?”

“Jamie, I told you, it’s not going to rain. Do you want to look at the weather again?”

“But what if the weather is _wrong_?” Her eyes are wide, her lower lip belligerent. “Remember last year? When it said there was going to be a ton of snow and then we only got a little bit?”

“Jamie—” Patrick spreads his hands, clearly working hard to keep his voice calm. “Kiddo, that’s not the same kind of thing.”

“But it _could_ be!” Her voice is getting high and panicky in a way that Patrick’s level-headed practicality is clearly not going to help. David rolls his eyes and turns away from the display of tote bags, crouching down next to Jamie.

“Okay, look,” he says, wrapping his hands around his knees. “You’re dad’s probably right, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make a plan for what to do if it does rain.” Jamie nods. “So, option one, no birthday party, we change your name and move to Shanghai to lead a life of mystery and glamour.”

“I—” Jamie wrinkles her nose. “I don’t speak Chinese.”

“Psh, unimportant,” David says with a wave of his hand. “Plenty of people speak English there.” He tilts his head. “So that’s option one. What else could we do?”

“We could…” Jamie frowns. “We could have the party another day, I guess? But Emma is going to Saskatchewan next week, and Kamal has summer camp, and—”

“Details, details.” David shakes his head. “Pick another day, right, okay, option two. And option three is, um…”

“Have the party anyways.” Patrick drops the the floor next to them, rubbing his hand gently over Jamie’s shoulders. “I mean, it’s a water park, right? The whole point is to get wet.”

“But what about the cake?”

“They’ve got that thing, remember?” Patrick sketches out something that’s probably supposed to be a building. “With the roof, but no walls?”

“A pavilion,” David puts in. “Or possibly a cabana?” He frowns. “It could be a pergola, I guess, but that won’t give you much protection from the rain.” Patrick and Jamie are staring at him with twin bemused expressions. “Trust me, there’s a difference,” David tells them.

“Anyway,” Patrick says. “We can do food there, and keep the stuff dry that needs to be dry, and otherwise we’ll just get wet.” He raises his eyebrows. “Plus, if it’s rainy, there won’t be as many people there, so the lines will be shorter.”

“Okay,” Jamie says slowly. “But what if it’s _cold_?”

“Tell you what,” Patrick says, standing up. “Let’s see if we can find out the average temperature for July 14th.”

Looking up the historical temperature data for northern Ontario seems to help Jamie calm down, and by lunchtime she’s back to her usual cheerful self. After lunch, Jamie’s friend Alisha comes by with her mom.

“How’s that moisturizer working out for you?” David doesn’t really need to ask; her skin looks radiant.

Kim beams. “I’m loving it, thanks,” she says. “So much better than the stuff I was using.” 

“Glad to hear it.” A fistful of gravel would have been better than what she was using, David’s pretty sure, but that’s beside the point. “We just got in a toner from Cherry Grove that I think would work well for your skin type, if you want to try it out?”

“Oooh, maybe?” Kim shakes her head. “But we were actually wondering if Jamie wanted to come over this afternoon.”

“Um.” David turns around to scan the store. “That would be...a question for her dad, probably?” Patrick is leaning against the cash, chin propped on his hand. “Patrick?”

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “What do you think, Jamester?”

“Alisha has _two dogs_ ,” Jamie says, which seems to decide the question.

They pack up Jamie’s stuff and send her sprinting out the door with Alisha, raincoats draped over their heads. Kim watches them from the doorway, grinning.

“Thanks for inviting Jamie,” Patrick says. “She was starting to get antsy with the rain.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Kim rolls her eyes. “Why do you think we came out in this weather?” She glances between Patrick and David, her smile deepening into a smirk. “And now you two can have a nice afternoon together.” With that, she’s out the door after the girls, umbrella tilted to block the worst of the rain.

“David—” Patrick’s eyes are wide and dark.

David shakes his head. “We have to tell Jamie,” he says, cutting off whatever devastatingly sweet thing Patrick was doubtless about to say. “Not today, I mean, and not tomorrow, but sometime soon.”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods. “After her birthday?”

“I think so.” David chews on his lip, thinking. “I have to go out to Elm Hills on Friday, so not then—unless you’d rather talk with her alone?”

“No, I think it’s better if we’re both there,” Patrick says. “Right?”

“I—yes?” David honestly can’t decide. Is it worse to be there, to watch as Jamie’s face fills with disgust and betrayal, or to just sit in his dingy motel room imagining it? Neither option sounds at all appealing. “Whatever you think is best.”

“David.” Patrick steps close and wraps his arms around David’s waist. His face is so sincere that David can barely stand to look at it. “David, you know that Jamie likes you, right?”

“For now, sure,” David agrees. “We’ll see how she feels once she knows.”

“David—” Patrick shakes his head and leans in for a soft, sweet kiss. “It’s going to be okay.” He quirks an eyebrow. “And if it isn’t, you can always change your name and move to Shanghai, live a life of—what was it?”

“Mystery and glamour,” David says, rolling his eyes and smiling despite himself. “But if I skip town, who’s going to make sure that Kim buys the right cleanser?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, David.” Patrick squeezes him gently. “Guess you’ll have to stay.”

***

The next day dawns bright and sunny. David spares half a thought to be glad for Jamie and her undisturbed party plans even while the rest of him is busy cursing mornings in general and the store’s opening hours in particular. He manages a minimally acceptable version of morning routine and chokes down two cups of terrible motel coffee while Stevie snickers at him.

“You know you could just open late, right?” She raises an eyebrow. “Patrick’s not going to know.”

“Okay, but _I_ would know,” David tells her, and refuses to look too hard at why, exactly, that would bother him.

“Fair enough.” Stevie shrugs. “Well, it’s 8:50 right now, so…”

“Fuck!”

The exertion of turning a fifteen minute walk into a ten minute walk does at least wake David up, his heart pounding as he tries to hurry without getting sweaty. He rushes through the rituals of opening only to discover that he’s still got five minutes to spare. When he checks his phone, there’s already a text from Stevie:

**ps did i mention that the office clock is ten minutes fast?**

Yelling at her keeps David distracted for a while, but eventually he runs out of synonyms for ‘duplicitous’ and has to face facts. Grimacing, he opens a private browsing window on the laptop and types _how to tell a kid you’re dating her dad._

There’s plenty of advice for single parents starting to date, even if half of it does contradict the other half. The advice for people trying to date those single parents is even less helpful. _Be Patient_ , one site suggests. _Don’t Rush It_. Definitely David’s strong suits. _Don’t Worry If The Kids Don’t Like You_ , like that’s an easy thing to do. David clicks a link to a story labeled _Are You Mature Enough To Date Someone With Children?_ , then closes the tab without reading it. That’s definitely not a question that he needs to have answered.

His phone beeps and he slams the computer shut in a moment of instinctual panic, but it’s just a text message from Patrick.

**Having a great time at Splash City!**

As David reads the message, a photo comes through. It’s an off-center selfie of Patrick, Jamie, and Rachel, all of them grinning widely and soaking wet. They look so happy together, natural and easy and _right_ , the perfect family. 

David saves the image to his photos and doesn’t reply, his stomach turning unpleasantly. Serves him right for drinking motel coffee.

It’s a slow day. The lack of customers does give David something else to worry about, but it’s only marginally reassuring to trade one horrifically stressful thing for another. The steady stream of texts from Patrick—burgers on the grill, Rachel smirking from an inner tube, a video of children scream-singing _Happy Birthday_ as Jamie grins—just serve to underline how good things are, how much David has to lose.

He saves them all, though, and turns back to the computer with renewed determination.

He’s going to figure this out.

By the next day, David has a plan, but there’s no way to discuss it with Patrick with Jamie in the store. David tries to talk around it, but that somehow turns into a conversation about how they need to “engage with the community” and “make people feel comfortable”.

“Okay.” David leans back from Patrick and crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you saying that I don’t make people feel at home?” Patrick tilts his head, the corners of his mouth twitching down in the way they always do when he wants to lie but knows he can’t sell it. David shouldn’t find it charming, but he does, he _does_.

“You remember our opening day here?”

“Yes.” David rolls his eyes. “It was opening day, and there was booze, and people are drunks.”

“Yes,” Patrick says, nodding, “but they still showed up.” He raises his eyebrows. “We need to do something to make this store feel a little more accessible, a little more inclusive.”

David’s spent his whole life striving for exactly the _opposite_ , actually, but Patrick’s not wrong. David sighs.

“Okay,” he says, watching the smile bloom over Patrick’s face. “I am...open to suggestions.”

Slightly less open, actually, when Patrick’s suggestion turns out to be an open mic night. David makes a face—okay, _several_ faces, he’s only human—but ultimately agrees. They need to get more people in the store, and if Patrick is willing to sacrifice his dignity and reputation on the altar of public humiliation, well. David is willing to let him make that sacrifice.

Theoretically willing, at least. Then Patrick comes back from the world’s longest lunch break with a permit for Tuesday night, and _then_ he ducks into the storage room and comes back out with—

“Oh, God.” David blinks aggressively, but the image doesn’t change. “What’s, uh—what’s that?”

“This is called an acoustic guitar,” Patrick says, completely failing to grasp that David’s question was less about terminology and more an expression of the deep-seated existential dread currently running through every fiber of his being.

“Right, okay,” David says. And it is, honestly. It’s fine. So Patrick wants to host an open mic for the community, even though he’s lived in Schitt’s Creek for more than a week and has therefore _met_ the community in question. So Patrick, in addition to welcoming these people into their island of calm and elegance, wants to play the acoustic guitar for them. In public, on purpose. Wants, maybe, to play an original song for them, even. In front of David, while David is also in public.

It’s fine. David feels _completely fine_ about all of this, thanks so much for asking.

***

“Are you okay, David?” Jamie looks up from the counter, frowning.

“What? Yes,” David says, steadying the vase of branches as it wobbles in his grasp. “No, yes, I’m totally fine.”

“Just, you’ve been messing with those branches for a long time,” she says, her brow furrowed. “They don’t even have any leaves on them.”

“Um, they’re manzanita branches,” David says. “They’re not supposed to have leaves; they’re _supposed_ to evoke a bittersweet sense of loss and a recognition of the ephemeral nature of life.”

“...okay,” Jamie says. She tilts her head, wrinkling her nose. “I think they’d be prettier with leaves, though.”

“Well.” David sniffs. “You’re entitled to your opinion, I guess.”

“David’s in charge of the aesthetic decisions, sweetie,” Patrick says, coming out of the stockroom. “That means he gets as many weird branches as he wants.”

“They’re not _weird_ ,” David starts, but he gives it up as a bad job when he spots the twinkle in Patrick’s eyes, the politely dubious expression on Jamie’s face.

“I’m going to go over to Town Hall,” Patrick says. “See if they’ll let me put up a few posters about the Open Mic.”

“Right, sure,” David says. “Because we’re...doing that.”

“We sure are!” Patrick grins. “Come on, David, it’s going to be fun!”

“Mmm, sounds like it,” David says. “Just, so much fun. The _funnest._ ”

“That’s not a word,” Jamie tells him. She shakes her head sadly. “It should be, but it isn’t.”

“Anyway, I’m going to head out.” Patrick presses a kiss to Jamie’s forehead. “You all set here, bug?”

“I’m almost done with my math,” Jamie says. She’s on summer break, but spends at least half an hour every day working in some kind of math workbook, because she’s a very strange child. “Can you check it when you get back, Dad?”

“Sure thing.” Patrick ruffles Jamie’s hair, smiling, then turns to David. There’s a moment where Patrick reaches out, a moment David starts to lean into it, lulled into complacency by the quiet of the store and the warm light of Patrick’s eyes, but—

“Awww, crud,” Jamie says. “David, is there a pencil sharpener?”

“In—” David swallows hard against the ache in his throat, the pinch of seeing Patrick’s hand waver in midair before landing gently on David’s shoulder. “In the drawer, yeah.”

“I—” Patrick drags his thumb over the collar of David’s j.juun sweater. “Are you okay? I can—”

“Go, go,” David says. “We’ve got this.”

“Nobody’s even _here_ , Dad,” Jamie says, blithe and blunt. “David and I can take care of it.” 

“Okay, well.” Patrick squeezes David’s shoulder, a gentle, warm press, his smile wry and affectionate. “Text me if you need anything.” There’s another breathless moment, the two of them perched on the edge of doing something and then backing away, and then Patrick is heading out the door with a cheerful wave.

David goes back to trying to capture the fleeting nature of beauty and existence with an armful of twigs and a vase. His hands are shaking, though, and the sleeve of his sweater catches on a particularly spiky branch and sends the entire thing flying, spilling across the display table.

“Fuck!” David throws up his hands and turns away from the table in frustration, only to see Jamie watching him with her eyebrows raised. “Oh, shit—” He winces. “Uh, sorry.”

“Those aren’t nice words,” she says, putting down her pencil.

“I know,” David says, helpless in front of her serious expression.

“Mikey L. said the F-word to Mahina during recess,” Jamie continues. “And _he_ had to go to the principal’s office for the rest of the day.” In the past, when David heard this particular tone, it was usually being used to describe jail sentences or a particularly embarrassing article on TMZ. “ _And_ he had to write her an apology letter.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” David tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m fu—” He catches himself, tries again. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Jamie stares at him for a little longer, then shrugs. “It’s okay,” she says. “Dad said it last week when he burned his thumb on the grill, and Grandma says it, like, all the time.” She scrunches up her face in a seriously adorable grimace. “I don’t think it’s fair, though, that grown-ups can say it and kids can’t.”

“I mean.” David blinks. “It isn’t, really.” Not that David’s parents ever did much to make him or Alexis clean up their vocabulary, beyond occasionally gently suggesting to their tutors that “limp-dicked imbecile” was inappropriate language for a twelve year old to use in front of guests. Still, David knows a double standard when he sees one. He hesitates, weighing what he wants to say. “If, uh—” Jamie’s watching him, her head tilted, looking so much like Patrick that it makes David’s stomach hurt. “If you want to swear, when you’re here, that’s okay.”

Jamie’s eyes shoot open. “Really?” 

“I mean, not in front of customers, ideally,” David says. “That’s not professional.”

“Right.” Jamie nods, biting her lip. “That makes sense.”

“But if it’s just us—” David shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“Are you sure?” David nods, and Jamie looks around the store, checking for the customers they both know aren’t there. “ _Fuck,_ ” she says, her voice loud and precise, and then bursts into giggles, clapping her hands over her mouth, eyes wide and startled. It’s utterly ridiculous and completely adorable; without really meaning to, David finds himself laughing too. That makes Jamie laugh more, which makes _David_ laugh more, until they’re hanging off opposite sides of the cash, gasping for breath, unable to make eye contact.

“Fuck, oh,” David says, provoking another burst of giggles from Jamie. “Thank you, Jamie,” he says, shaking his head. “That was—I needed that.”

“Why?” Jamie’s voice is light, still tinged with laughter, but her eyes are wide and serious. “What’s wrong, David?”

“Uh—” David bites his lip, considering, and goes with part of the truth. “I’m a little nervous about the open mic, I guess.”

“Are you performing?” Jamie’s face goes intent. “I want to, but I don’t think I can borrow the drum kit from the school now that it’s summer, and Dad said that Mrs. Bertram might complain.” Mrs. Bertram lives above the bank next door, and has called in noise complaints for such unforgivable sins as playing music past 7 pm, using power tools on a Sunday, and walking loudly.

“I, uh, no,’ David says. “ _Fuck_ no.”

“You’re a good singer, though,” Jamie says. “And you can dance.”

“And yet, no, not performing,” David says. “No, it’s nothing, I just—” He sighs. “I’ve had some bad experiences, I guess, with people that I’m, uh.” _With people I’m dating_ , but no, that’s not it, he can’t, not yet. There’s a plan. “With...friends...who think they’re better performers than they are.”

“Ohhh,” Jamie says, nodding. “Like when Kayla sang a solo at the talent show and it was _really bad_ and nobody wanted to tell her.”

“Exactly,” David says, relieved that this, at least, will translate into pre-teen drama. “And your dad wants to play a song, and I just, I—” He reaches over the cash to rest his hands on Jamie’s shoulders and look her dead in the eye. “How worried do I need to be here, Jamie?”

“About Dad?” Jamie shakes her head. “No, he’s really good, David.”

“Okay,” David says, “sure, but, like. What does that _mean_?”

“He’s good!” Jamie widens her eyes earnestly. “He knows, like, a _million_ songs, and sometimes he makes up his own words, and they even rhyme.” She shakes her head in admiration. “That’s super hard.”

“Right,” David says. “Fair.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “And, uh, just out of curiosity—what kinds of songs does he know?”

“He knows a _million_ songs,” Jamie repeats. “He knows the song from _Golden Girls_ , and _O Canada_ , and all of the songs from _Frozen_ , and, like—” She flings her arms out. “A _lot_ of songs, David.”

“Um, wow,” David says, reeling. “That’s, uh. Quite the list.”

Jamie nods again. “And a lot of other stuff, too. Some of it’s kind of old, though.” She looks at David and shrugs. “But _he’s_ kind of old, so I guess that makes sense.”

“Okay, you were born in 2009,” David tells her, rolling his eyes. “You don’t get to decide what’s old and what’s not.” 

“Sure, David.” Jamie rolls her eyes right back, shaking her head, and David has to laugh.

“Actually, though,” he says. “I wanted to ask—” The bell rings and David spins around, expecting a customer, but it’s Patrick.

“We have posters!” Patrick says. “How are things here?”

“I finished my math!” Jamie hops down from the stool and dashes around to give Patrick a hug. “And David said that I can swear in the store as long as there are no customers.”

“I see.” Patrick looks up and catches David’s eye. David shakes his head, helpless.

“Double standards are bullshit,” he says, and Patrick laughs.

“Fair enough,” he says. “But not in front of customers, right, bug?”

“If you ever _have_ any,” Jamie says witheringly.

“Well, hopefully some people will come tomorrow night,” Patrick says. “I talked to Ronnie and Bob, and they seemed pretty excited.”

“Great.” David doesn’t even try to fake sincerity. “We’ll have a dedicated heckler and a mediocre poet.”

“And you, dad!” Jamie tips her head back and grins up at Patrick. “You’re playing, right?”

“I am,” Patrick says.

“And, uh, speaking of that,” David says, doing his best to keep his voice light and airy. “Do you know what, exactly, you’ll be playing?”

“David’s worried that you’ll suck,” Jamie says, the rat. “I told him that you don’t, though.”

“Thanks, bug.” Patrick ruffles her hair. “I don’t know what I’m going to play,” he says, meeting David’s eyes over Jamie’s head. “You think you can help me think of something tonight?”

“Mm-hmm!” Jamie nods aggressively, and Patrick grins down at her, then flashes David a sly look.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” Patrick says, which. 

Fuck.

***

David makes it through the rest of the day on sheer willpower, helped out by a few stolen kisses in the back room. In the evening, he sends Patrick and Jamie off with a smile and a wave, then throws himself into deep-cleaning the display shelves. If they’re going to have a crowd in the store, he’s going to make sure that everything is impeccable.

The next day, despite Patrick’s boundless confidence, David is still reluctant to believe that this will work. Sure, they have a few more customers than usual in the store, and sure, all of them mention the open mic in tones that could almost be termed _fond_ —but David’s a realist. Promising to attend an event is cheap; actually turning up on a Tuesday night is a lot harder.

He’s wrong, of course.

“See, David,” Patrick says, after they have to re-stock the wine for the second time. “I told you.”

“You did,” David admits, looking at the very respectable crowd of people browsing through their store. “I mean, it remains to be seen if any of them will _buy_ anything, but—”

“Connecting with the community, David,” Patrick says. “Remember?” David tries to make his eyebrows convey exactly what he thinks of the Schitt’s Creek “ _community_ ”, but Patrick just laughs, sliding his hand gently down David’s arm, and turns to head toward the stage.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing the microphone. “I think we’re going to, ah, get things started here.” He’s good in front of the crowd, easy and natural.

“David, hi!” Jamie tugs on the sleeve of David’s Givenchy. “David!” From across the store, David sees Rachel, caught in conversation with Cheryl from the hardware store.

“Hi,” David says, torn between greeting Jamie and watching as Patrick promises, fuck, ‘the first of many open mic nights here at Rose Apothecary’. “Hi,” he repeats, tearing himself away as Patrick starts to tune his guitar. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” Jamie bounces on the balls of her feet, grinning. “How are you?”

“I’m, uh—” David crouches down to look Jamie in the eye. “Jamie, I need you to level with me. Do you know what he’s going to play?”

“Yup!” Jamie says.

She doesn’t elaborate, and David raises an eyebrow. “...and are you going to _tell_ me?”

“Nope!” She giggles. “He’s about to start, though.”

“Oh, god,” David says, and stands up just in time to see Patrick finish tuning his guitar, flattening one hand over the vibrating strings to still them.

“So I wasn’t quite sure what to play for you tonight,” Patrick says, smiling out at the crowd. “I had a couple of songs in mind, but, I don’t know, I just couldn’t decide.” He brushes his fingers gently over the strings, plucking out a wistful, meandering little melody. “Fortunately, my daughter is a lot smarter than me—”

“Not like it’s hard,” Ronnie says audibly. Patrick grins as a ripple of laughter runs through the audience.

“So she asked me what I wanted to say, and she thought about it, and she suggested a song, and, well.” Patrick plays another chord, this one bright and triumphant. “She was right.” 

“You’re _welcome,_ ” Jamie says, and the audience laughs again, a warm swell of sound. David looks at her, raising his eyebrows, but she shakes her head, her mouth firmly shut.

“So this is Jamie’s suggestion, but I’d actually like to dedicate this song to another very special person in my life,” Patrick says. Which Patrick can’t, he’s not going to— “David Rose,” Patrick says, ducking his head just a little, his eyes finding David’s across the room. “There he is, right there, you can’t miss him,” Patrick says, and starts to play.

Immediately, David can tell that Jamie was right: Patrick is _good_. His hands are sure and confident on the guitar, shaping chords that David recognizes but can’t quite place.

“Jamie, come _on_ ,” he hisses, but Jamie just giggles, and then—

“ _I really wanna stop, but I just got the taste for it,_ ” Patrick sings. “ _I feel like I could fly with the boy on the moon._ ” For a second, David’s caught in the moment, savoring the clear, strong sound of Patrick’s voice. Even when he closes his eyes, David can hear the way Patrick’s smiling around the lyrics, warm and wry and conspiratorial. It’s a beautiful moment, the crowd and the wine and the soft lighting and Patrick’s voice in his ears, singing about—he’s singing—

“Um, what the _fuck?_ ” It comes out louder than David means it to, if the way the woman in the back row turns to glare at him, but fuck her, anyway. David’s in crisis, here. “Jamie—”

“Shhh, David.” Jamie pokes him in the side. “You can’t swear when there are customers.”

“But—”

“Shhh.” She stares at him with her eyebrows raised. “Listen.”

And so that’s what David does: he stands in front of the cash register listening as Patrick sings, “ _I really, really, really, really, really like you_ ,” doing his level best not to scream or cry or pass out. This isn’t happening, it _can’t_ be happening. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to David, not without some caveat, some catch—

“Oh, _David_ ,” his mother says, materializing next to him and clutching at his shoulder. “It seems that your fiscal associate is making a rather _forward_ overture.” She leans in close to whisper in David’s ear. “Do you need me to pull the fire alarm?”

“I—no,” David says, shaking his head, unable to look away from Patrick for more than an instant. _And I want you, do you want me, do you want me too?_ “No, this is—this is fine.”

“Dear, there’s no need to maintain such a courageous mien,” she says. “And I _hope_ I’ve taught you better than to tolerate unwanted workplace advances.” 

“No, it’s not—” David blinks, his eyes itching. “It’s not unwanted.”

“Well!” Moira clicks her tongue. “And when did _this_ exciting new eventuation come to pass, if one may be permitted to ask?”

“We’ve, uh.” David swallows, intensely aware of Jamie next to him. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while.” David looks down at Jamie, wincing preemptively, but she just leans against him, ducking her head under his elbow and hooking an arm around his waist. 

“I see.” Moira looks pointedly between Jamie and David, then up to Patrick on the stage. “I _do_ hope that you’ve considered the ramifications of this new liaison, David.” She frowns. “Filial dynamics can be so terribly onerous.”

“I have, yeah.” David rests a hand tentatively on Jamie’s shoulder. She presses into him, easy and trusting. “This is what I want.”

“In that case, I wish you every possible felicity,” Moira says. Her smile is unexpectedly soft as she leans in to brush a featherlight kiss over David’s cheek. “And I look forward to furthering my acquaintance with your new conjunct.” She drifts away in a waft of Chanel No. 5.

“Your mom’s funny,” Jamie says, tilting her head up to look at David.

“That’s definitely a word,” David agrees.

They listen to the last of the song in silence Jamie tucked against David’s side. David’s whole body is buzzing with nervous energy, but he forces himself to stay still until the final chords are echoing through the store, Patrick’s voice gone soft and husky as he sings _do you want me too?_

“Did you like the song?” Jamie’s voice is muffled by the applause, but David hears her.

“I liked it,” David says. “Jamie, I—”

“Good,” Jamie says, nodding. “Dad wanted to sing some dumb old song, but I told him you’d like this better.”

“So you,” David blinks. “You knew that we, that we were—”

“Dating? I’m not _stupid_ , David.” Jamie rolls her eyes. “Also you left a _bunch_ of tabs open on the computer.”

“And that’s—okay? With you?”

“I mean.” Jamie’s expression is solemn. “You lied to me a _lot_.” She makes a disgusted face. “At least Mom didn’t lie to me about stupid Stevie.”

“I—we didn’t—” Jamie gives him a withering look and David deflates. “Yeah, we did,” he agrees. “I didn’t want to distract from your birthday, I guess.” He bites his lip. “And I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Well, don’t _lie_ to me,” Jamie says. “And I won’t have to.” She frowns up at him, suddenly looking much older than ten. “That wasn’t nice, David.”

“No,” David says, “it wasn’t.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry, Jamie.”

“I forgive you,” she says, leaning back in and hugging him. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Hey, my favorite people!”

“Dad!” Jamie tugs away from David and launches herself at Patrick, who catches her easily, his guitar left up on stage for the time being. “You were _great_ , Dad!”

“You liked it?” Patrick’s holding Jamie tight, but his eyes are locked on David’s, open and searching and so full of affection that David can hardly breathe.

“It was—” David shakes his head, lost for words. “It was good, Patrick.” He can feel the smile spreading over his face, too wide and too open and too much, unflattering and involuntary and buoyant. “It was really good.”

“Good,” Patrick says, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. “That’s, uh—that’s good, David.” He glances down at Jamie and then steps forward, telegraphing his movements, giving her a chance to object as he wraps a hand around David’s neck, as he draws David down for a slow, sweet kiss. It’s nothing; it’s everything: Patrick’s mouth moving gently against David’s, completely chaste and utterly electrifying.

“—talk to her, Dad?” Patrick pulls back, blinking hazily, and turns to Jamie.

“Sorry, bug, what did you say?” His hand is still on the back of David’s neck, warm and steady; David has to fight to stay standing and more or less focused.

“I _asked_ if I can go talk to Ms. Ronnie,” Jamie says, in the tone of somebody who’s already repeated herself more than she wants to. 

“Ms.—” Patrick frowns. “Hang on, how do _you_ know Ronnie?”

“She did a pitching clinic last week,” Jamie says. “And I want to ask her about her fastball.”

Patrick’s frown intensifies. “Sure,” he says. “But, you know, Jamie, I don’t really think you need to ask _Ronnie_ —”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jamie chirps, and skips away. Patrick watches her go with narrowed eyes. David watches Patrick, his entire body tingling with anticipation.

“Wait, Jamie, what the—” Patrick makes a dissatisfied little hum. “I’m going to go after her,” he says.

“Sure,” David says. “Or, just a suggestion, you could—” He trails his fingers down the smooth muscle of Patrick’s forearm, linking their fingers together. “You could stay here.” He bites his lip. “With me.” David watches out of the corner of his eye as Patricks swallows, a dull flush creeping up his neck.

“I—” Patrick glances over at David, looking away a second later. His fingers tighten on David’s, sudden and convulsive. “I mean, I have to go back and introduce the next act at some point.”

“Not yet, though,” David says. He rubs his thumb over the back of Patrick’s hand. “You don’t have to go yet.” His voice sounds choked and strange, like he’s talking from the bottom of a well, but David has never felt more present in his entire life. His entire body is vibrating with awareness of Patrick next to him, all of the places they’re touching and all of the places they’re not.

“No,” Patrick says, slow and thoughtful. “No, I don’t have to go.” He traces a finger up David’s palm, pressing a nail gently into the thin skin over David’s wrist bones. David shivers, caught and aching and fizzing with a wild yearning. He wants Patrick to stop. He _never_ wants Patrick to stop. He wants Patrick to do the same thing to his entire body and he wants Patrick to kiss him and he wants, he _wants_ —

“So, uh.” David clears his throat. “Jamie...”

“Knew, yeah.” Patrick winces. “Read me the riot act about not lying to her, actually.”

“Me too.” David looks across the room and spots Jamie in the seat next to Ronnie, the two of them chattering animatedly. “But she forgave us.” He turns back to Patrick. “And she suggested...Carly Rae Jepsen?”

“Yeah, uh.” Patrick rubs his free hand against the back of his neck, looking down and away. “Jamie went through a—I’d say it was a phase, but she didn’t really ever get over it, so.” He shrugs, the movement translated down his arm to a gentle tug at David’s wrist. “I learned a few of her songs.”

“To be clear, I’m not complaining,” David says. “She’s one of the preeminent Canadian songwriters of the 2000s.” He bites his lip. “It’s a good song.”

“It is,” Patrick agrees. “And, I mean. It said what I wanted to say, so.”

“That’s.” David blinks ferociously, forcing the current act—a teenager with a mullet and a patchy beard warbling through an inappropriately down-tempo cover of _Sweet Caroline_ , ugh—back into focus. “I—me too,” he says, rushed, suddenly frantic with the need to make Patrick know. “Patrick, you know that, that I—”

“Yeah, David.” Patrick squeezes his hand again, warm and steady and sure. “I know.”

***

David gets through the rest of the open mic somehow, willpower and muscle memory taking over while his brain dissolves into a frantic, dizzy hum of _patrick patrick patrick_. He sells toner and moisturizer, cat-hair scarves and linen shawls, cutting boards and salad tongs and wooden puzzles. He smiles at customers, makes polite conversation, digs out another case of wine for the back room and opens a bottle for Ronnie.

“ _That_ was certainly something.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” David feels the grin spread over his face like a sunrise, too soon and too much, brilliant and obnoxious and perfect. “Yeah, it was.”

Ronnie snorts. “Aw, you’re no fun,” she says, shaking her head. “Come find me when you’re done being all gooey.”

“Sure,” David says absently, watching as Patrick introduces the next act. “That is...definitely something that I will do.” Somebody in the front row makes a comment and Patrick laughs, his head tipping back. David has to take deep, slow breaths around the feeling swelling behind his sternum, sweet and wild and glorious.

“Ugh.” Ronnie grabs the bottle of wine out of David’s slack, unresisting hands, stomping back to her seat with a huff. David watches her go, vaguely aware that he should say something and completely unable to do so.

“Hi,” he says instead, turning to the next person in the drinks line. “Are you finding everything okay?”

It’s all a blur, smiles and laughter and the constant, unwavering awareness of Patrick, like a magnet, like an anchor behind David’s navel, a steady tug of heat and want. People cross the stage, sing and talk and play music. David stays at the cash, his hands working automatically, counting down the minutes until the crowd gradually dissipates.

“—off the hook,” Rachel says. David blinks, jolting back to reality.

“Wait, what?” 

Rachel rolls her eyes, smiling indulgently. Next to her, Stevie makes the same expression, minus the warmth.

“We’re taking Jamie tonight,” Stevie says. “So you two can, I don’t know, be gross or whatever.”

“I—really?” David shakes his head. “Stevie, that’s—”

“ _Not_ my idea,” she says, holding up a hand. “But it’s probably child endangerment to leave her with you two right now, so.”

“...thanks.” David squints at her. “I think.” Stevie sticks out her tongue and flips him off, only to yelp and wince when Rachel pokes her in the ribs.

“Knock it off, you two,” Rachel says. “Can you see Jamie anywhere? We should probably—oh, hey, there you are!” Rachel tugs Jamie in for a hug. “You’re coming home with us tonight, that okay?”

“Yes,” Jamie says feelingly. “They’re going to be boring and gross.” She shakes her head. “I told Dad the joke about the interrupting cow and he didn’t even laugh.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Stevie says.

“I know, right?” They share a commiserating look, momentarily united in their disgust before backing away uneasily. 

“Anyway,” Rachel says, clearly fighting down a smile. “You’ve got school tomorrow, so we need to head out pretty soon.”

“Moooom,” Jamie whines halfheartedly, but she nods. “One more song?”

“One more,” Rachel says. “And you should go say good night to your dad.” Jamie nods and heads off, squirming through the crowd as Twyla strums her way through a shockingly upbeat rendition of _Someone Like You_. “I’m glad you figured your shit out,” she says to David, her tone conversational. “You’re good for him.”

“I...thanks,” David says. “Is this the part where you threaten to murder me if I ever hurt him?”

Rachel shrugs. “Wasn’t planning on it, no.” She looks up at Patrick, currently bent over to listen to Jamie. “He’s a grown-up, when he’s not being a complete moron; he can take care of himself.” She glances over at David, quirking her mouth in a sliver of a smile. “I mean, I can give it a try if you really want me to, but—”

“No,” David tells her, “no, that’s fine.” He glances between Rachel and Stevie. “Um, have a nice evening?”

“You owe us,” Stevie says. “And you’re going to pay.”

“Do you need cash, or is Venmo okay?” Stevie sticks out her tongue and David makes a face back

“Excuse you both.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “I already have one child; I don’t need any more.”

“Speaking of which,” David says, spotting Jamie weaving her way through the crowd, “uh, incoming.”

“I said good night to Dad,” Jamie says, crashing into Rachel’s side. “So we can go now.”

Rachel quirks an eyebrow, resting a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “I thought you wanted to stay for one more song?”

“Yeah, but Dad says that after this it’s the guy with the puppets.” Jamie grimaces. “I don’t want to watch the puppets.”

“A very sound choice,” David tells her. “Go on, leave while you can.”

Rachel looks like she’s thinking about demurring, but the combined efforts of Stevie and Jamie drag her out the door, leaving David alone. 

Well. “Alone”, for values of “alone” that include half the population of Schitt’s Creek, his _mother_ , and Allan ( _The Puppeteer! Birthdays and Wakes a Specialty!_ ) Bernard.

The puppets aren’t that bad, though, really. Well, the puppets are creepy and terrible, but David doesn’t mind as much as he knows he should. He’s similarly unfazed by the acts that follow: indifferent singers and middling musicians; a magician with more enthusiasm than talent; a poet with deeply distressing hair and a tendency to rhyme “heart” with “apart”. He even makes it through Ray’s stand-up act, despite all of the ways in which the thought of Ray Butani doing stand-up comedy is profoundly incorrect.

David makes it through, because at the end of it all, there’s this: Patrick, shutting the door firmly behind the last customer and turning towards David. His shoulders are loose and easy and his face is lit up like a billboard with the same energy that’s turning David’s heartbeat into a drumroll.

“So that was—” Before David can figure out what his adjective was going to be, Patrick is on him, hands cupping David’s face, kissing him hot and sweet and insistent in front of the windows and anyone. “No, but—” 

“No?” Patrick quirks a pale eyebrow and ducks down to suck a kiss at the base of David’s throat. _God_ , why does David have to be the mature one?

“No.” David backs away, wrapping his hands around Patrick’s and pulling free of them. He presses a kiss to the inside of Patrick’s wrist in apology. “I mean, yes, one hundred percent yes, but, like—” He gestures towards the cash, the movement abbreviated by the way Patrick twists their hands together. “We need to close up and, and deal with the cash, and—that stuff,” he concludes shakily.

“Fuck the cash,” Patrick says vehemently. David lets himself be pulled into another slow, drugging kiss before he backs away, shaking his head.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I could,” Patrick says, adorably mulish.

“Yeah, okay, you could,” David agrees, tracing his thumb over the curve of Patrick’s cheek. “But you don’t.” He presses a kiss next to Patrick’s eyebrow, then steps back. “You count out; I’ll deal with...this,” he says, turning to face the disaster area that their cheerfully intoxicated audience has made of his beautiful displays. “Or, on second thought, we could leave it all for tomorrow?” 

“No, no.” Patrick is already at the cash, counting out the money with a little frown between his eyebrows, but he looks up long enough to shoot David a grin. “You wanted to close up properly, so we’re going to do that.”

“ _Ugh._ ” 

There’s something soothing about it, though: the little rituals of closing up, setting things to rights, the two of them working together in quiet harmony in this moment that is only ever theirs. Patrick hums quietly to himself as he double-counts a stack of bills, snatches of songs David recognizes and songs he doesn’t. David bites back a grin as he gathers up abandoned glasses from around the store. He’s taking a break to strategize when there’s movement at the corner of his eye, the sudden warm press of Patrick against his back.

“You done?”

“Enh.” David holds his hand out flat and wobbles it from side to side. “The skincare stuff is a mess, but I was thinking I might—”

“Leave it for tomorrow?” Patrick presses a kiss to the hollow of David’s jaw, a lingering brush of lips over David’s stubble.

“I, uh.” David swallows, feeling Patrick’s mouth warm and steady against the motion. “Yeah.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” Patrick says, his voice vibrating pleasantly against David’s throat. “But, I mean, if you really want to stay—”

“No,” David says, “No, I’m...” He turns around, takes Patrick’s hand. “I’m ready.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and his eyes, oh, his eyes on David’s face, like a spotlight, a searchlight, an inferno. “Let’s go home.”

*

They go home. The drive is interminable, agonizing, a million years long at least, until David blinks and they’re pulling into the driveway of Patrick’s house.

“Patrick—” he starts, but Patrick shakes his head, smiling.

“Inside,” he says firmly. David tries for a moment to manage his reaction, keep it normal, play it cool, but the greedy gleam in Patrick’s eyes is too much to resist. David sighs, sags into the seat, gives in to the shiver that runs through his body like an electric current, like a shockwave. “David,” Patrick says, low and devastating, and David rocks his head back against the seat and revels in it, all of this want bubbling to the surface, hot and desperate and tingling. “David, I want—”

“Inside,” David says, raising an eyebrow and letting it soften quickly into a smile. “I—we have time.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick says, smiling like a curtain going up. “Yeah, we do.” He reaches out a hand and brushes the back of his finger down David’s cheek, then yanks it away as though he’s been burned, letting out a quiet hiss of breath. “We do, but David, I want—I _want_.”

“Yeah,” David agrees, “God, _yes_.” He throws himself out of the car like it’s about to explode, or maybe like he’s about to.

They make it inside like that, veering towards each other and backing away, a delicate, spiraling dance that draws them closer and closer until they’re in Patrick’s bed, naked somehow, pressed together neck to ankle, hot skin and the steady weight of Patrick over him.

“What do you, oh—” David’s words dissolve in his throat as Patrick grinds down against him, slow and deliberately filthy. “What do you want?”

“I—like this,” Patrick says. He shoves his way gently between David’s thighs, getting their dicks lined up. “Just, we can—like this?”

“Oh, we can _definitely_ like this.” David lifts one leg up and hooks it over Patrick’s hips, dragging Patrick close. “ _Like this_ is one of my personal favorites, actually.” He nudges a heel into the smooth, muscular curve of Patrick’s ass, and Patrick takes the hint, rocking forward and then back, setting up a slow, sweaty rhythm.

“Really?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, leans in to punctuate it with a bite to David’s collarbone. “I would have thought it would be too—messy.”

“I’m not opposed to a little mess,” David says. “In the right contexts.” Patrick shifts in a suboptimal direction and they both wince as skin pulls on skin unpleasantly. “Here, can you get the—yes, thank you,” David says, as Patrick pulls away and rummages in the nightstand. “And just kind of—” Patrick squirts lube all over them both, rushed and sloppy, and David jerks his hips up, relishing the coolness against heated skin. “Yeah, _oh_ ,” he says, “just like that.”

“Happy to help.” Patrick drops the lube onto the nightstand with a clatter. “Now, then.” He looks down, his eyes raking over David’s body. “Where were we?”

“Mmm, I think you were—” David spreads his legs and tugs Patrick forward until they’re pressed together again, Patrick’s dick shoving messily into the crease of David’s hip. “Yeah,” he says, and then Patrick thrusts down against him, slick and intimate, and oh, oh. David drops his head back to the pillow, closing his eyes and letting it wash over him, pressure and sensation and the murmur of Patrick’s voice in his ear.

“David, oh,” Patrick says, biting at the inside of David’s forearm. “Fuck, you’re so—you feel so—” He wraps a hand around David’s thigh, hitches it higher, fucks down against David again, again, sloppy and frantic and so, so good. “I want, oh,” Patrick says, and his voice sounds like it’s being squeezed out of him, breathless and overwhelmed. “I want—”

“Tell me,” David says. His hands are tight on Patrick’s shoulders as he rocks up against that sweet hot pressure. “Tell me, Patrick.”

“I want to make you come,” Patrick says.

“Oh my _God_.” Those words alone are almost enough to get David there, simple and direct, straightforward, incendiary. “Fuck, I’m, oh.” David swallows, tightens his leg around Patrick’s side. “I’m close, just, mmmm—” The angle is good, but David tilts his hips, shifting under Patrick’s weight until it’s even better, the steady slide of Patrick’s dick against his, the slick, lewd noises they make together. 

“I’m, oh—”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Come on, David, give it to me,” and just like that David is coming all over both of them, shivering as Patrick thrusts against him

“I, oh, fuck,” David gasps, shocky and overstimulated. “I—”

“Too much?” Patrick shifts his weight and kneels up, putting some space between their bodies. The rush of cool air on wet skin makes David hiss in a startled breath. Patrick soothes a hand up David’s thigh in response, leans down to kiss David’s kneecap. “You okay?”

“No, yeah,” David says, scrambling for words as his brain fizzes with static. “I mean, yeah, no, definitely. Shut the fuck up,” he adds, as Patrick bites back a grin.

“I didn’t say—”

“You were _thinking_ it,” David says, because Patrick clearly was. “God, you’re the worst, why do I even like you?”

“I don’t know, but.” Patrick ducks his head down, presses a sweet, lingering kiss to David’s sternum. “I’m glad that you do, David.”

“I—” David has to pause, suddenly desperate for air. “I do,” he says. “I, fuck. I like you so much.” He has to crane his neck to be able to kiss Patrick, but the awkward angle is worth it for Patrick’s warm mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth, the hot press of his tongue.

“Me too,” Patrick says, his mouth curving into a smile against David’s. “In fact, you could say that I really—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” David says, squeezing his eyes closed.

“—really, really, really—”

“Fuck you,” David says, trying to drown out Patrick’s voice, “fuck you, fuck you, oh my God, I take it all back, you’re a nightmare, I’m leaving—”

“—really like you, David,” Patrick finishes, his voice almost dissolving into laughter. “And I want you; do you want me?”

“I do.” David can’t even try to lie. “Although right this moment I’m honestly a little unclear on _why_.”

“Hmmm,” Patrick says, frowning in mock concern. “Well, I mean, if you want me to leave you alone until you figure it out—” He shifts his weight, leaning back, and David gasps as Patrick’s dick drags along his. “Shit, sorry, I’ll—”

“No, no,” David says, aftershocks of pleasure ricocheting through him, and grabs Patrick’s arm. “No, I, that’s good,” he says. “You’re good.” He shivers, spreading his legs wider around Patrick’s hips, trying to get Patrick that much closer. 

“Yeah?” Patrick traces a hand through the mess on David’s stomach, trails the pads of his fingers lightly down David’s softening dick. His eyes are hot and dark, tracking the way David trembles under that delicate touch. “It’s not too much?”

“No, it is,” David says, his whole body still buzzing with sensation, “but it’s—it’s good,” he says again, helpless. “Fuck, it’s _so_ good.” He squirms and rolls his shoulders back against the bed, pressing up against Patrick.

“Fuck, David.” Patrick sounds absolutely wrecked. “I want to, can I just—” He drags his fingers through the mess of come and lube on David’s stomach, then wraps a slick hand around his dick and gives himself a slow, twisting squeeze. “Like this?” 

“Mmmm, absolutely.” David melts back into the bed, still boneless with orgasm, and watches as Patrick jerks off, taking in the quiver in his thighs, the gentle flex of muscle in his arm. Every so often, the backs of his knuckles brush against David’s dick, a glancing pressure that sends a wash of heat through David’s body. “You going to come for me, Patrick?”

“ _Fuck_.” Patrick’s eyes flicker closed, the plush red of his lower lip caught between his teeth. His thumb rubs slickly over the head of his dick, wet and gleaming in the lamplight. “I, oh, I’m—”

“Going to come all over me?” David anchors his feet on the bed and arches up, pressing into Patrick’s body in a long, breathless wave. “Mmmm, yeah,” he says as Patrick’s hand moves faster. “You’re going to get me all messy,” he tells Patrick. “I like it.” 

“David, _oh_.” Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. “David—” He shivers and groans, hot stripes of come landing on David’s dick, his stomach, his thighs, sloppy and messy and viscerally, disgustingly good. “Fuck,” Patrick gasps, his hand slowing, and then he’s collapsing next to David in a flurry of sweaty limbs. “Fuck, that was...”

“Yeah,” David agrees. He runs a hand along the curve of Patrick’s head, holding him close. “It really was.” 

They stay like that for a while, the moment stretching out golden and peaceful as their breathing slows and falls into sync. Eventually, though, Patrick rolls away for a languid full-body stretch, his hands brushing the headboard, his feet tangling in the sheets.

“We should probably—” There’s a muted chime from his pants, abandoned over by the doorway, and Patrick frowns. “Wonder who that is?”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” David says, turning onto his stomach and watching as Patrick crosses the room. He looks good naked, easy and unselfconscious, the strength of his thighs pairing nicely with the fucked-out looseness in his spine. The curve of his ass, as he crouches down to find his phone, is _unbelievably_ good; David can’t possibly get hard again yet, but the visual is extremely appealing nonetheless.

“Oh, huh.” Patrick braces his hands on his thighs, twisting to look back at David. “Rachel and Jamie want to know if we want to have dinner tomorrow night, maybe check out that new barbecue place in Elm River.” He raises an eyebrow. “Stevie’s already in. What do you think?”

“That sounds—” David pauses, thinking. Dinner with his boyfriend, his boyfriend’s daughter, his boyfriend’s ex-wife, and the ex-wife’s current girlfriend, also known as David’s best friend. The restaurant will be aggressively mediocre and the napkin situation will be dire; David will probably get barbecue sauce on at least one item of irreplaceable couture. Jamie and Stevie will be awkward and Rachel will be anxious about it, while Patrick will make terrible jokes that don’t actually do anything to defuse the tension. Afterwards, there’s a better than average chance that they’ll all come back to the house so that David can get absolutely stomped at Scrabble and then not get laid at all.

“It sounds like fun,” David says, and God, he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT'S DONE!!!
> 
> .... except not really; there's going to be an epilogue sometime* ~~next week~~ and probably at least a few timestamps. But the main story is done! Thanks to everybody who came on this ridiculous journey with me - your comments gave me such glee. And double plus thanks to my crack beta team for, seriously, service above and beyond the call of duty. I owe you all one million.
> 
> *The epilogue is delayed indefinitely on account of the fucking global pandemic, pals. It'll happen when it happens. Wash your goddamn hands.


End file.
